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ACTIONS     AND    REACTIONS 

IN     RUSSIA 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2008  witin  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/actionsreactionsOOIiddricli 


ACTIONS 

AND    REACTIONS 

IN    RUSSIA 


BY 


R.    SCOTLAND    LIDDELL 
II 


AUTHOR   OF 

"ON     THE     RUSSIAN     FRONT" 
"THE    TRACK    OF    THE    WAR" 

WITH  i6   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK 

K  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 

1918 


D5Si 


By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Clement  K.  Shorter,  of  the 
"  Sphere,"  /  am  'permitted  to  include  here  several  con- 
tributions to  his  journal. — K.  S.  L. 


PRINTED    IN    OKBAT    Bt-ITAIN    BV    K.    CI.AV    AND   SONS,    LTD., 
BRUNSWICK    STREET,    STAMFORD   STREET,    S.E.,    1,    AND    PUNGAV,    SUFFOLK. 


TO 

MY    FATHER 


M183687 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  I 

MONOTONB         1 

CHAPTER  II 

THE   ANCHORED   SHIP 13 

CHAPTER  III 

EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT 23 

CHAPTER  IV 

WAR  TIME   TRAVELLING   IN   RUSSIA 35 

CHAPTER  V 

THE   CAUCASUS — VIA   CRIMEA 44 

CHAPTER  VI 

THE   BRITISH   ARMOURED   CARS 54 

CHAPTER  VII 

"anno   DOMINI   .    .    .    ." •  63 

CHAPTER  VIIT 

IN  A  BRITISH  MESS-ROOM 67 

CHAPTER  IX 

KARS  TO   ODESSA 74 

CHAPTER  X 

THE   DOBRUJA 82 

CHAPTER  XI 

THE   RETREAT   ON   THE   DANUBE    ....  .  .  87 

CHAPTER  XII 

FROM   ROUMANIA   TO  THE   FRONTIER 98 

vi 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XIII 

RE»I   TO   PETROORAD 109 

CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   RUSSIAN   FRONT  AGAIN 118 

CHAPTER  XV 

GRIGORIE ....        124 

CHAPTER  XVI 

GRIGORIE— THE    MISER 130 

CHAPTER  XVII 

HIS   EXCELLENCE 134 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

"weather  PERMITTING   .    .    .    ." 140 

CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   FAMINE   IN  RUSSIA 146 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE   COMING  OF  THE   REPUBLIC 156 

CHAPTER  XXI 

MY   COMMAND — I 162 

CHAPTER  XXII 
soldiers'  committees 171 

CHAPTER  XXIII 
•'amongst  those  killed  .  .  .  ." 183 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

MY  COMMAND— II 190 

CHAPTER  XXV 

AN  OPEN   LETTER  TO  THE    CENSOR 200 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

SMOKE   PICTURES 208 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

"  COMRADE   HUN  " 217 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOK 

Reserve  Soldier  Servants  Washing  Up     ....  Facing   8 

At  Novo-Minsk,  after  a  Zeppelin  Raid 28 

St.  George's  Hospital .  32 

Refreshments  En  Route 40 

Caucasian  Women  Sifting  Corn 48 

An  Old  Turkish  Village  in  Armenia 56 

A  British  Armoured  Car  in  the  Caucasus 66 

In  Difficulties  by  the  Way 80 

Russian  Soldiers  Boarding  a  Barge 88 

On  the  Quay 96 

Headquarters  of  the  R.N. A. S 112 

English  Soldiers  of  the  R.N. A. S 144 

Prisoners  Loading  a  Barge .  160 

A  Russian  Gunboat 176 

A  Camp  on  the  Eastern  Front    . 182 

A  Field  Bakery 208 


ACTIONS    AND     REACTIONS 
IN    RUSSIA 

CHAPTER  I 

MONOTONE 

There  is  a  sameness  about  this  war.  Battles  are 
very  much  alike.  Artillery,  certainly  :  machine  guns, 
rifles,  hand-grenades  and  bayonets.  Shells  of  varied 
calibre  :  shrapnel  bursting  high  and  low  ;  bullets  and 
bombs ;  occasionally  a  mine.  Aeroplanes,  too — of 
course  of  different  design  ;  but  when  they  fly  so  high 
up  in  the  sky,  they  all  look  quite  alike.  The  weather 
changes,  and  the  seasons  change,  but  the  war  remains 
the  same. 

There  is  a  sameness  about  the  trenches.  Our  Russian 
lines  are  all  alike.  Pine  wooden  trench  supports  ;  sand- 
bags and  works  of  earth  ;  narrow  loop-holes  for  rifles 
and  broader  ones  for  mitrailleuses ;  and  outside,  west- 
wards, zigzagging  obstacles  of  wire.  We  see  the  enemy's 
domain.  It  looks  to  us  just  as  our  lines  must  look  to 
him.  We  see  his  sand-bags  and  his  heaped-up  earth. 
We  see  the  slits  through  which  his  bullets  come.  Al- 
though the  enemy  we  do  not  see,  we  know  his  eyes 
are  tiirned  on  us,  while  ours  are  fixed  on  where 
he  is. 

There  is  a  sameness  in  the  land  behind  the  Russian 
lines.  The  shell-pocked  plains ;  the  broken  woods ; 
the  derevni  where  soldiers  live.  These  villages  are  grey 
and  built  upon  a  single  plan.  Each  izba  has  its  roof 
of  thatch,  its  walls  of  rough  tree  trunks.     Each  izba 

B 


s       Actions  and  reactions  in  russia 

has  its  littered  yard,  and  each  its  sarei — stable  and  coop 
and  byre  and  barn  in  one.  But  the  cottages  and  all 
the  sariev  are  barracks  now.  Each  village  has  its 
korodtzev — its  deep-dug  wells,  with  a  great  wooden 
lever,  the  jouravel,  erected  like  a  giant  fishing-rod  beside 
each  one.'  Then  there  are  the  dug-outs,  too,  roofed 
with  earth  and  turf.  There  are  the  cooking-wagons 
of  the  regiments.  There  are  the  men— -resting,  or  eating 
from  their  blackened  ration  pans,  or  lined  up  for  a  drill. 
One  enters  such  a  village  once — then  one  finds  all  the 
others  are  the  same. 

There  is  a  sameness  in  the  rough  cart-tracks.  Wide, 
rutted  roads  that  widen  as  each  week  goes  by.  Rain 
falls — the  roads  are  churned  to  mud — and  then  the 
drivers  seek  a  better  way  and  turn  their  horses'  heads 
towards  the  rutless  ground.  Some  fields  are  all  a 
track.  Reserve  trenches  lie  unevenly  across  the  land. 
Barbed  wire  is  ready,  too,  with  gaps  where  traffic  may 
pass  through  and  nearby  trestle-gates  of  wire  to  close 
them  if  need  be.  Shell  wagons  pass  daily  to  and  fro. 
Four  horses — six — or  even  eight  are  yoked  to  every  one. 
Wagons  of  bread  and  ugly  carcases  of  meat :  wagons  of 
hay  tied  up  in  bales,  or  corn  in  leaking  sacks  ;  wagons  of 
wire  and  staves  and  planks  of  wood — one  sees  them  every 
day.  And  men — in  ones  and  twos  and  companies  and 
regiments.  They  march  across  these  tracks  behind  the 
lines.     There  is  a  sameness  about  them  all. 

There  is  a  sameness  about  the  wounded.  The  mono- 
tony of  war  is  this  :  guns  and  munitions  and  men,  and 
broken  land — and  dead — and  wounded  soldiers.  .  .  . 
The  great  coats  splashed  with  blood  and  torn  with  shot : 
the  bandages  that  look  so  doubly  clean  :  the  tired, 
grimed  faces — how  very  much  alike  all  are.  Some  men 
have  greater  wounds  than  others.  Some  have  legs  hurt, 
and  some  are  injured  in  the  arm  :  some  have  their  heads 
bound  up,  others  have  body  wounds.  But  one  does 
not  consider  this.  The  place  of  wound,  also  its  gravity, 
are  merely  indirect.  The  point  one  thinks  of  at  the 
war  is  that  this  man  is  hurt — is  that  he  cannot  fight — 
is  that  another  man  must  come  to  fill  his  place.  Ten 
wounded,  one  may  say,  or  ten  times  ten  ;  other  details 
are  not  for  us  to  know.  Let  doctors  fight  with  Death 
to  save  their  charge  :    let  nurses  guard  him  night  and 


MONOTONE  8 

day  :    the  future  of  the  soldier  rests   with  God — the 
vital  fact  is  : — We  must  have  another  man,  .  .  . 

And  the  sum  total  of  this  sameness  is  usually  the 
same — the  situation  remains  unchanged. 


II 

I  find  that  it  is  difficult  to  write  of  war.  What  can 
I  say  that  I  have  not  already  said  ?  I  have  written  of 
battles  on  the  Russian  Front.  My  words  will  stand  : 
I  need  but  change  the  dates.  I  have  written  of  the 
thunder  of  the  guns  :  to-night  I  hear  just  such  a  thunder 
as  I  write.  Two  years  ago  the  rifle  volleys  that  I  heard 
went  "  pup-pup-pup,"  like  potatoes  boiling  in  a  pan  : 
they  sound  like  that  from  where  I  sit  to-night.  Two 
years  ago  the  machine-guns  stuttered  "  chug-chug- 
chug-chug,"  like  a  motor-bicycle  ;  to-night  they  stutter 
just  the  same.  Two  years  ago  the  No-Man's  Land  was 
lit  with  rocket  fire  ;  if  I  go  to  my  door  I  will  see  the 
lights  that  I  have  seen  each  night  upon  the  Russian 
Front. 

When  I  have  been  in  Petrograd,  my  friends  have 
questioned  me  about  the  war.  They  think  that  I, 
fresh  from  the  Front,  have  very  much  to  tell. 

"  Now,  let  us  hear  your  news,"  they  say,  and  wait 
expectantly. 

*'  Why,"  I  reply,  "  you  know  much  more  than  I." 

And  that  is  true.  What  do  we  know  of  history  at  the 
Front  ?  Nothing — or  nearly  nothing.  Hardships  of 
war  we  know  :  and  suffering,  and  sometimes  thrills  and 
sometimes  nervousness.  But  when  we  want  to  know 
the  news,  we  have  to  wait  until  the  papers  come. 

"  A  Zeppelin  was  here  last  week,"  one  officer  remarks. 

*'  Yes  ?  "  we  say,  indifferently. 

The  officer  reads  some  other  paragraphs. 

*'  Did  you  see  it  ?  "  someone  asks  after  a  while. 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Zeppelin." 

"No.     Didn't  know  it  was  there." 

We  do  not  doubt  official  reports  :  we  do  not  doubt  the 
Russkie  Slovaks  word  :  yet  none  of  us  who  were  beneath 
the  track  of  sky  on  which  the  airship  rode  knew  of  its 

B  2 


4  ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

passing  in  the  night.  Glory  be  to  God,  as  my  friend, 
Nicolai  Mihailovitch,  would  say,  we  do  not  know  the 
dangers  we  live  through. 

"  Well,  then,"  say  my  friends  in  Petrograd,  "  tell  us 
some  details.     Newspapers  don't  give  us  them." 

"  What  sort  of  details  ?  "  One  certainly  has  a  varied 
store  of  them. 

"  Battles,  of  course." 

"  Artillery,"  I  say  wearily.  "  Aeroplanes  directing 
fire.  They  drop  star  signals  or  paper  balloons  above  our 
batteries ;  ours  drop  star  signals  or  paper  balloons 
above  theirs — but  I've  told  you  all  this  before." 

"  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  But  what  else  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  wearily — "  shrapnel  and  maxim  guns  and 
rifles.  And  we  lose  some  men — and  they  lose  some  men. 
We  know  our  losses  and  we  guess  theirs  :  they  know  their 
losses  and  they  exaggerate  ours.  Dead  men,  of  course, 
and  wounded.     That's  all." 

My  friends  are  disappointed.  They  question  me 
again. 

"  Oh  !  for  heaven's  sake  !  "  I  cry,  "  change  the 
subject.  War — war — war  !  .  .  .  You  folk  in  Petro- 
grad don't  seem  to  have  any  better  subject  of  con- 
versation. You  depress  me.  Honestly,  after  a  week  in 
town  I'm  glad  to  go  back  to  the  Front." 

"  But,"  they  say,  "what  do  you  talk  about  there  ?  " 

"  Our  various  love  affairs,"  say  I.  "  We  live  them 
once  again.  .  .  .  Holidays  of  other  summers.  Esca- 
pades of  boyhood.  Also  what  we  are  going  to  do  when 
war  is  over." 

"  And  war  ?  " 

"  We  have  enough  of  that  as  it  is,  without  needing 
to  talk  about  it." 


Ill 

Of  battles  it  is  difficult  to  write,  but  of  the  Russians 
at  war  there  is  very  much  to  say.  The  Russian  Fronts 
— I  write  plurally — are  not  alike.  I  mentioned  in  an 
earlier  paragraph  the  grey  derevni  where  the  Russian 
soldiers    live    when    off    trench    duty.     They    are    the 


MONOTONE  5 

villages  where  I  am  now.  They  are  the  villages  from 
Riga  down  the  map  to  Pinsk.  But  Russia  has  an 
Asiatic  Front  as  well.  The  Caucasus,  where  I  have 
been,  is  Eastern  and  quite  apart.  Conditions  there  are 
otherwise  from  those  that  we  have  here.  The  enemy  is 
of  another  race.  The  climate  on  that  Asiatic  Front  has 
every  grade  of  temperature  from  Arctic  cold  to  tropic 
heat.  Casualties  there  include  frost-bite  and  malarial 
fever.  There  are  dry  barren  mountains  there,  while 
we  have  marshes  here.  They  have  much  mutton  and 
sometimes  little  bread  :  we  have  the  bread,  but  some- 
times little  meat.  There  is  much  tempting  fruit  on 
that  Caucasian  Front.     There  is  also  cholera.  .  .  . 

And  Roumania,  where  I  have  also  been.  A  British 
squadron  and  the  Russians  fought  side  by  side.  Con- 
ditions there  were  yet  again  unlike.  The  Russians,  and 
the  British,  too,  sailed  to  the  war  on  river  ships  and 
barges.  We  also  sailed  to  safety  when  the  moment 
came.  .  .  .  Here,  too,  the  enemy  was  otherwise.  Bul- 
garian— although  we  had  the  Germans  and  Turks  and 
Austrians,  too.  Of  the  Roumanians  I  do  not  wish  to 
write.  Of  Allies — nil  nisi  bonum.  .  .  .  But  I  must 
tell  of  one  most  apt  remark.  Perhaps  it  will  not  be  out 
of  place  if  I  write  of  it  here.  .  .  .  When  Constanza  fell 
and  when  the  enemy  was  also  marching  on  towards 
Bucharest,  Lieutenant  Mitchell,  a  Canadian  officer  of  the 
British  armoured  cars — alas  !  he  is  a  prisoner  of  the 
Bulgars  now ! — spoke  to  me  somewhat  pessimistic- 
ally. 

"  God  dammit !  "  he  declared  in  a  burst  of  disgust, 
"if  we  have  any  more  Allies,  we're  going  to  lose  this 
war  !  " 

Caucasus  or  European  Front :  enemy  German  or 
Austrian  or  Bulgar  or  Turk  :  winter  or  summer,  icy-cold 
or  burning  hot — the  War,  as  war,  remains  the  same. 
The  stage  settings  vary,  and  the  characters  wear  different 
dress,  but  the  drama  of  Battle  varies  not.  The  actors 
act  almost  alike  :  the  guns  shout  out  the  self-same 
words  :  the  orchestra  of  Death  plays  its  monotonous 
tune. 

But  Russia  to-day  is  not  the  Russia  of  two  years  ago. 
Russia    herself    has    changed    miraculously.     She    has 


6  ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

broken  off  her  fetters.  The  Monarchy  and  all  the  evil 
courtiers  have  gone.  Republican  Russia  :  Russia  for 
the  Russians  !  .  .  .  One  cannot  overestimate  the  change. 
Not  only  is  it  a  change  from  bondage  to  liberty  :  it  is 
a  change  from  darkness  into  light. 

What  a  black  page  of  history  that  former  Russian 
Ministry  makes  !  Soukhomlinov,  whose  name  spells 
that  tragic  want  of  ammunition  of  two  years  ago.  The 
Russian  papers  have  written  this  :  "  When  Madame 
Soukhomlinov  was  buying  jewellery  and  precious  stones 
and  rich  toilettes  and  all  the  most  expensive  luxuries  of 
life,  the  20th  Corps  was  dying  in  the  snow.  Their 
artillery  was  without  shells.  They  had  no  cartridges 
for  their  rifles.  Some  of  the  men  had  no  rifles  "... 
Stiirmer — Herr  Stiirmer,  the  Russian  papers  call  him 
now — who  nearly  betrayed  Russia  and  the  Allies  by 
signing  a  separate  peace.  The  Germans  lost  a  powerful 
friend  when  Stiirmer  went  from  office.  .  .  .  Proto- 
popov,  the  former  Minister  of  the  Interior,  another 
traitor  to  his  country  and  his  fellow-men.  Protopopov, 
who  was  responsible  for  the  famine  in  the  towns — the 
food  shortage  that  brought  the  public  anger  to  a  climax 
and  directly  brought  about  the  Revolution.  Proto- 
popov has  been  accused  of  deliberately  starving  the  towns 
with  the  object  of  provoking  the  public  to  an  internal 
war  in  Russia,  to  the  advantage  of  the  Germans.  .  .  . 
There  were  other  evil  Ministers,  too.  .  .  . 

And  Rasputin,  a  peasant  from  Siberia,  who  made  and 
unmade  Ministers.  Rasputin  the  "  holy,"  the  de- 
cadent leader  of  the  unspeakable  orgies  of  vice  of  which 
all  Russia  talked  :  the  lover  of  the  Russian  Court  who 
boasted  in  his  drunken  hours  of  "  Sasha,"  the  then 
Tsarina.  The  assassination  of  this  religious  'poseur 
freed  Russia  of  a  very  evil  influence.  The  same  week 
Moscow  actually  started  a  fund  for  a  memorial  to  the 
man  who  was  generally  supposed  to  have  shot  Rasputin  ! 
.  .  .  But  that  assassination  could  only  have  happened 
in  Russia  as  she  was.  Rasputin  himself  could  only 
have  happened  in  the  Russia  that  was  before  the  Revo- 
lution came.  The  Russian  papers  have  written  of 
Rasputin  and  his  intrigues  with  the  ex-Empress.  But 
no  English  paper  could  print  such  filthy  and  disgusting 
facts.  .  .  .  And  all   Russia  knew  that  such  intrigues 


MONOTONE  r 

were  going  on.     All  Russia  had  known  for  some  years 
of  the  shameful  *'  German  **  Empress.  .  .  . 
I  will  write  a  little  story  that  I  will  call 

The  Hole  in  the  Road 

On  the  Russian  Front,  in  the  long,  dreary  winter  of 
the  second  year  of  the  great  war,  I  lived  in  a  one- 
roomed  peasant's  hut  in  a  little  grey  village  on  a  wide 
bleak  plain.  A  dull,  monotonous  winter  it  was — but 
I  have  written  of  that  elsewhere. 

A  dozen  versts  across  a  frozen  marsh  and  through  a 
thin  pine  wood  was  the  nearest  railway  point.  To  it 
came  fodder  for  our  horses  and  food  and  stores  for  our- 
selves, and  ammunition.  There  was  a  regiment  of  men 
housed  in  our  village,  and  each  day  a  score  of  army 
sledges  went  to  fetch  the  goods  that  we  required. 
Heavy  artillery  wagons,  too,  went  almost  daily  for  their 
load  of  shells.  The  track  on  which  the  sledges  and 
wagons  went  was  fairly  good.  Snow  and  a  driving 
wind  had  levelled  it,  and  the  broad  runners  of  the 
clumsy  sledges  had  pressed  it  to  the  hardness  of  block 
ice.  The  centre  of  the  track  was  softer.  The  sharpened 
shoes  of  the  horses  kept  cutting  it  so  that  it  was  a  path 
of  smally  broken  ice.  And  this  was  good  for  the  horses' 
feet,  so  all  was  very  well. 

But  there  came  a  thaw.  There  came  warm  suns  and 
nights  not  very  cold.  The  road  bent  down  in  places, 
and  rose  again.  Some  stretches  were  quite  switch- 
backing.  Pools  of  dirty  water  formed  in  the  wake  of 
our  sledge  runners,  and  mud  formed  where  the  horses 
ran.  The  hollows  were  deep  puddles  through  which  we 
had  to  splash.  The  sun  continued  and  sometimes  rain 
fell,  and  the  surface  earth  showed  in  places  so  that  the 
sledges  grated  as  they  ran  across.  So  finally  we  yoked 
our  wheeled  carts  once  again — with  joy  because  here 
was  the  Spring  at  last :   the  gloomy  winter  had  gone  by. 

This  thaw  meant  very  much  to  us.  We  woke  from 
hibernation  to  a  slight  speeding  up  of  war.  Also  to 
changes  topographical.  Our  track,  for  instance,  needed 
altering.  The  marsh  no  longer  let  us  go  across.  Our 
road  was  now  a  semicircle  to  the  wood.  Beyond  that, 
close  up  to  the  edge,  there  was  a  tiny  stream.     We  had 


8  ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

not  noticed  it  before.  We  found,  too,  that  our  plain 
no  longer  was  a  level  field.  Curves  and  hollows  came  to 
view,  and  there  was  a  resurrection  of  shrubs  and  bushes. 
.  .  .  The  spring  track  was  very  bad.  Mud ! — you 
cannot  think  how  much  there  was.  Stretches  of  water, 
too,  so  deep  in  places  that  half  our  wheels  were  sunk 
in  them  as  we  squished  through.  But  still  we  had  to 
make  this  track  do. 

One  day  I  rode  on  horseback  to  the  railway  line. 
There  was  a  rough  bridge,  made  from  fallen  firs,  across 
the  little  stream.  And  just  beyond,  my  horse  swerved 
at  a  hole  in  the  road.  The  wheels  of  each  passing  cart 
had  cut  into  the  soft  mud  and  the  hole  had  become 
deeper  and  deeper  each  time.  ...  I  thought  at  the 
moment,  "  I  must  remember  that  hole,"  but  I  rode  home 
a  different  way  that  night,  a  long  way  round,  and  I  did 
not  trouble  any  more  about  it.  Two  days  later  I  passed 
across  the  little  bridge  again,  and  I  found  that  the  road 
now  led  in  a  deep  curve  towards  the  right.  The  reason 
was  plain.  There  was  the  former  track — and  there  the 
hole  where  the  wheels  had  sunk.  One  driver  had  driven 
to  the  right  of  it,  and  then  another,  and  so  until  all 
carts  now  travelled  on  the  new-marked  way. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  that  is  very  interesting. 
I  will  watch  and  see  how  things  go  on." 

And  I  watched  ...  I  had  to  ride  at  least  once  every 
week  across  that  road  so  I  saw  all  developments.  The 
new  curve  became  very  muddy,  so  the  drivers  drove 
still  more  towards  the  right,  but  there  were  some  odd 
trees  there,  so  they  had  to  go  still  further  off  the  straight 
to  pass  them.  And  even  that  new  track  became  deep 
in  greasy  mud,  so  the  carts  went  further  and  still  more 
far  afield.  At  the  end  of  the  end — it  is  a  Russian 
expression — the  road  had  so  far  cut  away  from  its 
original  line,  that  the  distance  to  the  railway  point 
from  where  we  lived  was  quite  a  verst  longer  than  it  had 
been.  And  much  time  was  wasted,  and  much  energy 
misspent. 

One  man,  with  one  spade,  in  one  minute,  could  have 
mended  the  hole  in  the  road,  .  .  . 


There  you  have  a  parable. 


;•.. 


MONOTONE  9 

How  we  have  talked  upon  the  Russian  Front !  .  .  . 
How  folks  have  talked  in  all  the  busy  Russian  towns  ! 
.  .  .  And  absolutely  unanimous  we  and  they  have  been 
in  all  that  we  and  they  have  said.  And  yet  nothing- 
was  done,  and  things  went  on  as  they  had  been.  We 
faced  the  enemy  upon  the  Russian  Front :  we  had  a 
greater  enemy  at  our  backs. 

In  March  of  this  year — in  March,  1917,  of  Russian 
history — we  talked  and  talked  about — the  state  of 
things.     I  told  my  story  of  the  hole. 

"  And  there,"  said  I  warmly,  "  you  have  the  open 
secret  of  Russia's  trouble.  That  hole  in  the  road  could 
have  been  put  right  in  a  minute,  but  no  one  stopped  to 
alter  it.  Everyone  who  passed  along  that  road  knew 
that  the  hole  was  there.  Everyone  knew  that  it  ought 
to  be  filled  up.  Everyone  knew  that  the  deepening 
curve  of  the  road  was  leading  further  and  further  away, 
and  that  all  could  be  put  right  and  that  the  road  would 
run  straight  and  free  as  it  ought  to  do.  Yet  no  one 
altered  it.  Drivers  cursed — I'm  sure  they  did  !  but 
then  they  drove  away  towards  the  right. 

"  That  road  is  the  road  of  Russia's  progress.  There 
is  a  hole  in  it.  You  go  round  that  hole.  You  know  it 
is  there,  you  see  it,  as  all  the  Russian  people  do,  but  you 
do  nothing  to  put  things  right.  You  go  round — away 
and  away,  and  God  knows  where  that  curving  road  will 
lead  you  all." 

My  friend  Nicolai  Mihailovitch  nodded. 

"We  will  fill  that  hole,"  he  said.  "Devil  knows 
how  many  dead  citizens  will  go  to  level  it." 

And  then  we  spoke  of  the  Revolution.  It  was 
bound  to  come.  All  agreed  to  that.  "  After  the  War," 
they  said.  After  the  War  the  Government  would  go. 
And  such  a  revolution  would  be  as  would  shock  the  world. 
All  agreed  to  that. 

"  A  red  month  is  coming,"  said  my  friend 
Nicolai. 

And  less  than  two  weeks  later,  the  Revolution  came, 
and  went.  Great  Russia  was  free.  And  the  freedom 
had  been  purchased  at  small  cost.  There  were  no  towns 
in  flames.  There  were  no  great  massacres.  There 
were  none  of  the  dreadful  scenes  that  folks  had  pro- 
phesied.    True,  there  were  some  victims,  but  the  num- 


10        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

bers   were   small.     Great   Russia   was   victorious.     No 
other  victory  of  hers  will  ever  be  so  great.  .  .  . 


*'  Red  March,"  soliloquised  Nicolai  Mihailovitch. 
He  wore  republican  ribbon  on  his  breast. 

"  But  there  has  been  very  little  bloodshed  !  "  pro- 
tested Captain  Shikov  of  the  artillery. 

Nicolai  Mihailovitch  smiled  a  reproof. 

*'  Red  March,"  said  he.     ''  I  was  thinking  of  roses " 

IV 

Roses  have  thorns.  .  .  .  ("  Iz  vodi  v  ogon  "),  says 
the  Russian  proverb.  "  Out  of  the  water,  into  the 
fire." 

By  a  bitter  irony,  the  liberation  of  Russia  from  a 
corrupt  Monarchy  and  a  Germanophil  Court  and 
Ministry  let  loose  a  mob  of  pacifists  and  agitators  who 
shouted  out  for  peace.  In  1915,  and  more  so  in  1916, 
the  country  had  feared  the  signing  of  separate  peace 
papers.  The  removal  of  Herr  Sturmer  (again  I  am  refer- 
ring to  the  ex-Minister  in  the  words  of  the  later  day 
Russian  Press)  caused  a  sigh  of  relief  throughout  the 
land.  The  assassination  of  Rasputin,  "  the  head  of  the 
German  spy  system  in  Russia,"  was  a  joyous  event. 
The  overthrow  of  the  pro-German  Ministry  and  the  com- 
ing of  Republicanism  were  the  final  moves  in  the  great 
game  to  save  Russia  from  everlasting  shame.  And,  by 
that  bitter  paradox,  the  patriots  who  had  saved  Russia 
threw  much  of  the  country  towards  the  German  side. 
Ministers  had  been  who  wished  to  betray  the  Allies  in 
the  moment  when  final  success  was  assured  :  a  populace 
had  been  who  feared  this  fatal  move.  Now  came 
these  new  Russian  Ministers — true  patriots — and  the 
mob  cried  out  for  peace ;  extreme  Socialists  called  out 
against  England ;  Jews  cried  that  the  Germans  were  the 
real  friends  of  Russia,  and  whole  regiments  of  men  re- 
volted against  a  continuation  of  the  war. 

I  was  at  the  Front  all  the  time,  so  I  cannot  write  of 
what  happened  in  the  towns.  But  I  know  what  hap- 
pened in  the  Russian  battle  zone,  so  I  will  tell  of  that. 


MONOTONE  11 

Not  all — one  cannot  tell  all,  much  as  one  would  like  to. 
It  was  a  most  nerve-trying  time — and  still  is,  as  I  write. 
I  am  commander  of  a  transport  here,  and  I  have  had  my 
special  difficulties.  The  discipline  of  former  times  did 
not  exist.  There  was  very  little  discipline  at  all.  Cer- 
tainly, on  the  surface,  there  was  some  respect  shown  for 
officers.  Soldiers  still  saluted  their  chiefs.  They  still 
spoke  much  of  the  special  language  of  the  men  to  their 
officers — "  Precisely  so,'*  instead  of  "  Yes  "  :  "  Not  so, 
no,"  instead  of  '*  No  "  :  *'  I  am  not  able  to  know,"  in- 
stead of  "  I  don't  know  " — but  words  meant  little. 
Later  on  there  was  an  order  cancelling  all  this  form  of 
speech.  .  .  .  The  discipline  had  gone,  and  we  officers 
knew  it,  and  we  did  not  know  what  the  next  hour  would 
bring  forth. 


There  is  much  to  write  of  Russia  at  war.  Not  much 
of  battles,  certainly,  but  much  of  life  upon  the  various 
fronts,  of  how  the  Revolution  affected  us  in  the  active 
army.  ...  I  have  no  great  advance  to  chronicle,  save 
Russia's  own  private  victory  ;  but  also  I  have  no  retreat 
to  write  about  on  the  Russian  Front  proper.  .  .  . 
Certainly  we  retreated  in  Roumania.  .  .  .  To-day  our 
line  is  very  much  the  same  as  it  was  twenty  months  ago. 
Indeed,  nearly  two  years  ago,  I  was  where  I  am  now 
upon  the  middle  front.  The  army  here  has  hardly 
moved  at  all. 

There  is  much  to  write  about  the  Caucasus  and  the 
Dobruja,  on  both  of  which  fronts  the  R.N.A.S.  armoured 
cars,  the  first  British  expeditionary  force  to  fight  with 
Russia,  did  service.  So  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  seen 
and  much  of  what  I  have  heard  :  some  idylls  of  the  war  : 
— some  comedies — some  tragedy.  I  will  try  to  show  you 
the  Russian  soldier  as  I  have  seen  him — a  fine  fellow 
who  has  fought  against  the  very  cruellest  odds  and  who 
at  last  is  coming  into  his  own.  He  is  a  big,  simple 
fellow — alas  !  too  easily  influenced  by  the  minority  of 
agitators.  Alas  !  too,  a  little  drunk  with  the  amazing 
freedom  that  has  come  to  him.  ...  I  will  tell  you  of 
the  difficulties  that  we  have  to  fight  with  here,  of  the 


12        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

discomforts,     of    the     few    joys     that     rainbow     our 
tears. 

But  the  Censor  is  listening.  She  (I  am  sure  the  Censor 
is  a  woman  !)  loves  not  me  and  my  kind.  Perhaps  we 
love  not  her,  in  spite  of  Bible  teachings.  ...  So  forgive 
me  if  I  do  not  tell  you  all.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    ANCHORED    SHIP 

Big  ships,  the  Russian  proverb  says,  are  made  for  big 
voyages. 

The  Russian  ship,  ballasted  with  wounded,  sailed  a 
stormy  passage  from  west  of  Warsaw  into  Russia,  and 
then  she  came  to  anchor.  Autumn  of  1915  found  m|e 
near  Listopad  upon  the  middle  Russian  Front.  I  spent 
the  winter  slightly  to  the  north — near  Smorgon,  east  of 
Vilna.  Part  of  the  spring  I  spent  there  too,  and  then 
I  went  to  Listopad  again.  That  was  just  a  year  ago, 
but  the  position  at  Smorgon  and  at  Listopad  has  never 
changed. 

My  diary  of  the  early  spring  of  1916  is  curiously  dull 
and  void  of  interest.  I  quote  at  random,  but  in  full, 
some  days'  recordings. 

"  March  1,  Wednesday,  Six  German  aeroplanes 
dropped  bombs.  No  damage.  Enemy  aeroplanes  at 
Molodetchno.     Twenty  men  killed :  sixty-seven  wounded.''^ 

"  March  2,  Thursday.  '  Bleeni.'  Hurd's  village  on 
firer 

I  will  enlarge  upon  these  notes.  Bleeni  are  pan- 
cakes that  the  Russians  eat  seven  weeks  before  Easter. 
Here,  on  the  Russian  Front,  we  observe  such  ceremonies. 
Bleeni  days  are  very  special  feasts.  Our  camp  table 
is  stocked  with  caviare,  and  slices  of  raw  fish  and  smoked 
salmon  and  eekra — an  extra  large  pink  watery  caviare  : 
tins  of  sardines  and  anchovies  and  sprats  and  lobster. 
The  cook  fetches  a  steaming  plate  of  piled-up  pancakes. 
We  each  have  two,  and  pour  melted  butter  on  them — 
or  else  thick  sour  cream — or  both.  Then  we  make 
caviare  or  fish  sandwiches  with  them.     The  cook  goes 

13 


14        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

off  to  fetch  another  batch I  managed  to  dispose 

of  seven  bleeni  ;  but  three  times  seven  is  not  unusual. 
Some  specialists  eat  thirty  at  one  sitting.  .  .  .  Then 
we  have  consomm6,  and  tea,  and  the  feast  is  at  an  end. 

"  Kurd's  village  "  was  the  little  derevnia  where  my 
friend,  Surgeon-Colonel  Eugene  Hurd,  an  American, 
was  stationed.  A  week  before,  during  two  of  my  fre- 
quent visits  to  him,  the  village  was  bombarded  for  some 
hours.  I  see  Hurd  now  as  I  saw  him  then  when  we  were 
standing  by  his  cottage  door  watching  the  shells  explod- 
ing in  the  fields.  A  great  tall  boy  of  a  man  with  a  lazy 
truly  Western  drawl. 

"  Wilson  should  know  of  this,"  said  he.  "  I'd  write 
and  tell  him  if  I'd  his  address." 

On  March  2,  the  village  was  burnt  down.  Hurd  and 
his  men  moved  across  the  snow  to  another  village.  Later 
on  my  friend  assured  me  solemnly  that  now  he  was  able 
to  understand  exactly  how  Napoleon  felt  when  he  got 
"  fired  out  of  Moscow." 

"  March  5,  Sunday.     Sivitsa  (a  village  on  the  plain). 

Colonel  B of  the  Artillery  asked  me  to  dinner,     Bleeni, 

Sledge  upset  in  shell-hole  on  way  home.^^ 

Bleeni  here  are  mentioned  chronologically,  not  from  a 
gastronomic  point  of  view.  Seven  weeks  from  March  5 
would  be  Easter  Sunday.  .  .  .  The  next  day  I  chronicle 
internal  indisposition.  I  remember  now  that  I  drank 
much  water  to  quench  the  thirst  the  bleeni  and  the  fish 
aroused,  a  mistake  I  knew  too  late. 

"  March  7,  Tuesday.    Sivitsa.     Colonel  B called. 

Whitewash  comedy.'*^ 

The  Colonel  had  a  little  low-built  long  black  dog, 
whose  sire  or  mother  must  have  had  German  blood. 
I  had  a  cat.  The  dog  gave  chase.  The  cat  clambered 
up  behind  the  stove.  The  dog  went  after  her.  My 
soldier  had  a  pail  of  whitewash  ready  for  spring-cleaning 
the  blackened  stove  walls.  The  cat,  in  jumping  down, 
fell  into  this,  but  got  out  in  time  to  make  room  for  the 
dog.  The  Colonel  clutched  his  dog  to  save  my  cat : 
I  clutched  the  cat  to  save  the  dog.  .  .  .  Then  I  had  to 
change  my  tunic,  and  the  Colonel  went  off  home  to 
change  his.  The  soldiers  in  the  village  laughed  when  they 
saw  the  dog. 

This  is  a  trivial  incident,  but  it  is  a  significant  one. 


THE  ANCHORED  SHIP  15 

Here,  on  the  middle  Russian  Front,  on  March  7,  1916,  I 
found  nothing  more  interesting  to  note  than  an  episode 
such  as  I  have  mentioned.  It  shows  how  dull  and 
stagnant  things  really  were. 

"  March  8,  Wednesday,  Rode  to  Zalacie  for  supper. 
Forgot  password — '  Mina  ' — hut  said  '  Good  Health  ' 
instead.''' 

There  is  humour  in  this.  It  was  a  never-failing  dodge 
when  officers  forgot  the  parole. 

"  Stop  !  "  the  sentry  would  call. 

"  Good  health,  brother  !  "  the  officer  would  say,  and 
the  training  of  the  man  would  fetch  him  to  the  salute. 

"  I  wish  you  health,  your  high  nobility  !  "  he  would 
shout. 

"  Enough,"  the  officer  would  say  carelessly,  returning 
the  salute  as  he  spoke.  ('*  Enough  "  is  what  the  Russian 
officers  say  for  ''  Stand  easy.") 

Then  he  would  ride  on  and  the  sentry  would  stand 
once  more  at  ease  beside  his  post. 

"  March  13,  Monday.  Zalacie.  Bull.  Quiet. 
Woman  spy  in  nurse's  dress  arrested.''' 

"  March  17,  Friday.  Smorgon.  Orders  to  commence 
the  Spring  Campaign  to-morrow.  In  the  evening  the 
Germans  shouted  that  they  knew  of  these.  '  We  will 
retreat,'  they  said,  '  but  we  will  stop  before  we  reach  War- 
saw.'    Roads  very  bad." 

Saturday  was  quiet  and  disappointing. 

Here  follows  all  the  news  I  had  to  note  for  four  days. 

"  March  21,  Tuesday.     Snow." 

"  March  22,  Wednesday.     Thaw.     Rain." 

"  March  23,  Thursday.     Snow." 

"  March  24,  Friday.     Thaw." 

Saturday,  March  25,  was  more  interesting.  I  had  to 
go  to  the  Corps  Staff,  whose  quarters  were  at  Benitza, 
some  distance  off.  The  Staff  house,  strange  enough,  was 
an  old  mansion  in  which  Napoleon  and  his  officers  had 
stayed  during  their  march  to  Moscow  and  also  during 
their  retreat.  The  dining-room,  where  I  lunched  with 
the  Generals,  had  not  been  changed  in  any  way.  I  was 
shown  there  a  Polish  book  of  Napoleon's  Russian  Cam- 
paign, with  a  map  showing  the  route  he  took.  This 
map,  as  far  as  Benitza,  would  do  for  one  section  of  the 
German  Army's  movements  in  the  present  war.     The 


10        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Germans  had  advanced  along  the  very  route  that 
Napoleon  did. 

"  March  28,  Tuesday,  Sunny  day.  Many  German 
and  Russian  aeroplanes.  Fifty  bombs  dropped  on  Molo- 
detchno.     Colonel  Bielaiev  and  new  heavy  guns  arrived.'' 

Colonel  Bielaiev,  a  St.  George's  Cavalier,  was  half- 
brother  of  General  Bielaiev  who,  later,  was  for  a  few 
weeks  Russian  Minister  of  War.  The  Colonel  was  a 
charming,  kindly  little  man.  His  mother  had  been  an 
Elliot  from  the  Scottish  Borders,  and  he  claimed  me  as 
"  zimlak  " — fellow  countryman.  .  .  .  The  Colonel's  bat- 
tery was  placed  not  far  from  my  camp  so  I  saw  much  of 
him  and  he  told  me  of  the  various  experiences  he  had 
had.  On  one  occasion  his  horse  was  killed  while  he  was 
riding  on  it.  A  piece  of  shell  struck  the  animal  in  the 
shoulder. 

"  My  boot,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  was  filled  with  the 
gore  of  my  steed." 

I  am  afraid  I  did  not  control  my  facial  expression,  for 
Colonel  Bielaiev  immediately  asked,  "  Have  I  made  a 
mistake  ?  ....  Is  that  good  English  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  !  "  I  answered.  Then,  later,  I  asked  him 
if  his  mother  had  taught  him  her  native  tongue. 

"  No,"  said  he.     "In  truth,  I  learnt  from  books." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  Almost  entirely  from  the 
Waverley  Novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott." 

So,  of  course,  that  explained  all.  Far  be  it  from  me, 
with  Scott  blood  in  my  veins,  to  do  aught  but  commend 
the  English  of  the  great  Sir  Walter.  But  the  Colonel's 
words  seemed  very  strange.  Another  man  might  speak 
of  "  gore  "  ;  another  of  his  horse  as  "  steed  "  ;  but  I  do 
not  think  there  is  another  English-speaking  man  in  all 
the  world  to-day  who  would  use  the  combination  seri- 
ously in  a  single  sentence  of  ten  words. 


II 

English-speaking  officers  and  men  upon  the  Russian 
Front  were  rare.  Officers  of  good  family  almost  in- 
variably could  speak  French.  So  could  almost  every 
Pole  I  met,  and  almost  every  lady  doctor.     German, 


THE  ANCHORED  SHIP  17 

also — and  certainly  the  soldiers  from  the  Baltic  Pro- 
vinces spoke  German  as  well  as  they  spoke  Russian  ; 
many,  indeed,  spoke  better.  ...  I  only  met  two  soldiers 
who  spoke  French.  One  was  a  Polish  volunteer,  the 
other  a  mechanical  engineer  attached  to  an  Armoured 
Car  section.  Both  were  of  good  position  and  can  hardly 
come  into  the  category  of  private  soldiers. 

I  met  at  least  half  a  dozen  simple  soldiers  who  spoke 
English — and  they  all  spoke  with  an  American  accent. 
They  had  worked  in  the  United  States  or  Canada  for 
some  years  as  miners  or  lumbermen  before  returning  to 
their  native  land.  ...  Of  the  officers  I  met  who  spoke 
English,  one  had  been  a  ranchowner  in  Texas  ;  one  was 
a  bank  clerk  from  London  ;  two  were  engineers — one 
from  Birmingham  and  one  from  Newcastle-on-Tyne  ; 
one  was  a  mining  engineer  from  the  Caucasus — he  had 
never  been  in  England,  but  he  had  worked  much  with 
Englishmen  ;  one  had  studied  agriculture  and  fruit- 
farming  in  California  ;  two  had  been  at  school  in  Eng- 
land ;  three  had  learned  English  in  Pekin,  while  study- 
ing the  Chinese  language  there  ;  and  several  others  had 
been  military  attaches  in  various  parts  of  the  world  and 
had  picked  up  English  from  British  officers. 

Nearly  every  Russian  I  knew  could  say  the  words, 
"  Kees  me  queek  !  "  And  there  were  other  English 
phrases  and  words  that  were  very  generally  known. 
They  were  all  said  to  me  when  my  nationality  was 
announced.  "  Five  o'clock  tea  "  ;  "  Ploom  pudding  "  ; 
"  Do  you  shpik  Engleesh  ?  "  ;  "  Alia  right  "  ;  and 
"  Shockeeng."  On  one  occasion  when  I  was  in  the 
trenches,  the  colonel  of  the  regiment  said,  "  Good  morn- 
ing !  Have  you  used  Pears'  Soap  ?  " — but  that  was  the 
limit  of  his  knowledge  of  English.  My  friend,  Sir 
Thomas  Dewar,  may  be  interested  to  know  that  on  this 
occasion  I  was  able  to  answer  "  Yes  " — and  the  cake  I 
used  had  cost  me  nearly  four  shillings.  .  .  .  And — 
association  of  ideas  ! — most  Russians  knew  of  whisky 
and  soda,  but  while  some  referred  to  it  as  "  wheesky 
soda,"  others  said  "  soda  wheesky  " — and  nearly  all 
were  under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  sort  of  vodka. 
"  English  vodka,"  they  called  it — at  which  I  protested 
and  had  to  explain  as  nearly  as  I  could  exactly  what 
whisky  was   like.     And  the   explanation   was   usually 


18        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

this — that  it  was  hke  cognac,  only  bitter  ;   a  somewhat 
unsatisfactory  one,  I  am  afraid. 

Nearly  everyone  I  met  knew  of  "  Engleesh  Mees  "  as 
a  term  for  a  young  lady  :  that  all  Englishmen  were 
"  sportsmen  "  ;  that  "  Good-bye  "  was  something  one 
said  to  friends — although  invariably  the  words  were  said 
to  me  instead  of  "  Good  morning  "  or  "  Good  evening," 
when  we  met.  Then  "rostbif"  and  "bull-dog" 
and  "  pipe "  and  "  football "  were  also  words  well 
known. 

When  I  was  in  Tiflis,  I  met  a  Russian  officer  who  told 
me — in  Russian,  of  course — that  he  knew  an  English 
sentence.  I  expected  to  hear  "  Kees  me  queek,"  but  the 
sentence  he  proudly  recited  was  this  : 

"  Mein  hertz  ees  een  'Olland  a-'untin'  ze  deer." 
This  reminds  me  of  an  occasion  when  I  was  with  an 
English  friend  and  his  wife  in  a  society  in  Petrograd 
where  we  all  spoke  French.  Several  French  people  were 
there,  and  one  of  them,  a  lady,  in  speaking  of  sport  used 
the  word  "  daim  "  which  my  English  friend  did  not 
understand. 

"  Qu'est  ce  que  c'est — daim  ?  "  said  he. 
"  Cerf,"    his   clever   wife   answered.     Then    "  Deer " 
she  explained  in  English. 

"  Oh  ! — deer  !  "  said  my  friend,  grumbling.  "  Why 
the  devil  can't  they  say  '  deer  '?....  Daim  !  .  .  .  . 
What  sort  of  word  is  that  to  use  ?  " 

It  is  inevitable  that  one  should  make  faux  pas  in 
speaking  foreign  languages.  Some  of  the  dreadful 
things  I  have  said  in  Russian  I  cannot  possibly  write 
down.  But  some  of  the  milder  mistakes  I  can.  I  called 
the  matron  of  a  lazaret  "  Staria  Sestra  "  ("  Old  Sister  "), 
instead  of  "  Starschia  Sestra  "  ("  Chief  Sister  ")  on  one 
occasion.  And,  in  speaking  French,  I  told  a  clever 
woman  doctor  that  she  was  a  "  sage  femme  !".... 
But  the  best  faux  pas  I  made,  and  it  has  its  humour, 
was  when  I  greeted  an  elderly,  long-haired  Russian 
priest  as  "Babushka"  ("Grandmamma")  instead  of 
"  Batushka,"  the  pet  name  for  "  Father."  I  also  asked 
him  where  his  "  Lavka "  ("  shop ")  was,  instead  of 
"  Lavra  "  ("  convent  ").  But  the  majority  of  my  errors 
are  too  dreadful  to  appear  in  print,  and  I  certainly 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  ask,  in  mixed  society, 


THE  ANCHORED  SHIP  19 

the  meaning  of  certain  words  I  repeatedly  heard  the 
soldiers  use.  .  .  . 

Ill 

The  earliest  days  of  April  were  beautiful.  A  small 
bombardment  did  not  mar  them.  German  shells  aimed 
at  an  observation  balloon — kolhasa  ("  sausage  ") — • 
behind  our  point  fell  on  all  sides  of  us  but  did  no  harm. 
All  snow  had  gone,  save  for  a  drift  or  two  in  shady 
hollows  in  the  woods.  The  Vilia  river  was  in  flood  and 
much  of  the  land  was  under  water.  Evenings  were 
glorious.  I  used  to  go  and  sit  by  the  wood's  edge  and 
watch  the  setting  sun.  In  front  of  me  were  spans  of 
melted  snow.  Pools  of  darkest  copper  hue ;  little 
violet  lakes  ;  the  sky  of  gold,  and  then  of  copper  and 
violet,  too.  The  colours  changed  as  the  sun  sank  down, 
so  that  the  lights  reflected  in  the  water  shaded  off  as 
those  of  rainbows  do.  A  blueness  would  settle  down 
upon  the  land,  and  then  a  dark,  dark  green.  The 
moon  would  come  to  change  the  lights  once  more.  .  .  . 
They  were  very  peaceful,  these  April  woods.  Walking 
in  them,  one  might  have  been  a  thousand  miles  from  war. 
One's  thoughts  would  be  of  all  but  battle — until,  per- 
haps, one  came  upon  a  clip  of  cartridges  fallen  from  the 
pouch  of  a  passing  soldier,  or  else,  perhaps,  upon  a  broken 
patch  of  wood  where  some  odd  shell  had  struck. 

On  April  6,  we  moved  by  train  to  Polotchani,  on  the 
line  to  Listopad.  A  Zeppelin  passed  over  us  at  night 
en  route  to  Minsk,  where  over  thirty  bombs  were  thrown. 
.  .  .  On  the  north  side  of  the  railway  at  Polotchani,  less 
than  half  a  verst  towards  the  west  from  the  little  station 
building,  was  a  deep  valley,  both  sides  of  which,  running 
at  right  angles  to  the  line,  were  now  occupied  by  enor- 
mous quantities  of  stores.  At  the  top  of  the  east  bank, 
too,  on  a  level  with  the  railway  were  other  stacks  of 
supplies.  Hay  in  bales — piled  up  to  a  great  height ; 
corn  and  kasha — food  for  horse  and  man  ;  sacks  of 
flour  beneath  giant  tarpaulin  covering  sheets  ;  barbed 
wire  in  small  fat  rolls  and  coils  of  ordinary  fence  wire 
with  which  to  make  low  obstacles  against  cavalry  ; 
heaps  of  black  bread  lying  on  the  ground.  Some  men 
had  actually  formed  the  walls  of  their  sleeping  huts 

c  2 


20        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

with  loaves  of  bread  !  timber  in  planks  and  also  trench 
supports  ;  six-feet  straw  mats  for  the  beds  of  the  soldiers. 
Each  man  on  march  carries  his  own  mattress  ;  horse- 
shoes and  bars  and  sheets  of  iron  for  regimental  smiths  ; 
bundles  of  clothes — coats  and  trousers  and  army  shirts  ; 
ugly  mottled  red  and  yellow  carcases  of  beef  and  mutton  ; 
potatoes  and  barrels  of  sour  cabbage — all  in  wholesale 
quantities.  The  men  in  charge  had  made  themselves 
cosy  sleeping  quarters.  Some  had  burrowed  into  the 
pile  of  straw  mats,  so  that  their  retreat  was  cave-like. 
Others  had  built  a  house  with  bales  of  hay,  and  others 
still  had  placed  planks  between  the  bags  of  corn  so  that 
they  formed  five  sides,  and  there  they  slept  when  night 
came,  the  outside  end  having  a  piece  of  tent  canvas 
fastened  as  a  door.  And  some  men,  as  I  have  said,  had 
a  blindage  of  black  bread  1 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  railway  line  was  a  siding 
to  which  shells  came.  They  came  each  day  in  quantities. 
The  artillery  men  opened  the  boxes  with  their  axes 
and  put  the  shells  in  the  trays  of  their  carriages  with  a 
seeming  carelessness.  They  handled  the  shells  as  one 
might  handle  stones,  dropping  them  at  times,  shoving 
them  aside  with  a  kick  of  the  foot,  and  so  on.  Farther 
up  the  valley  where  the  army  stores  were  kept  were  two 
long  rows  of  ammunition  wagons — fifty,  at  least,  in  all 
— which  stood  idle  for  many,  many  weeks.  Although 
when  I  was  nearer  Listopad,  some  weeks  after  I  was  in 
Polotchani,  I  saw  a  great  number  of  peasants'  carts 
which  came  to  the  Bloc  Post  Station  for  shells.  These 
went  off  in  their  wooden  boxes  to  be  opened  elsewhere. 

Each  day  the  various  regimental  carts  came  for  sup- 
plies. Some  were  drawn  by  two  horses  ;  others  had  two 
oxen  to  propel  them.  One  cannot  say  "  draw,"  because 
these  oxen  are  harnessless.  At  the  front  of  the  centre 
pole  there  are  two  square  wooden  frames.  Each  ox 
has  one  of  these  fastened  round  his  thick  strong  neck, 
and  he  propels  the  cart  by  pushing  against  this  little 
wooden  frame.  The  men  sit  on  their  carts  and  direct  their 
cattle  with  a  whip — a  stroke  on  the  left  side  makes  the 
oxen  go  towards  the  right :  and  on  the  right,  towards 
the  left.  It  is  all  very  simple.  No  harness  is  required. 
The  animals  are  slow  but  sure.  And  one  knows  that 
one  need  never  starve  should  a  crisis  arrive.     Motor-cars 


THE  ANCHORED  SHIP  21 

came,  too — lumbering  clumsy  transport  wagons  with 
chain-girt  wheels.  Wonderful  cars  they  were :  only 
wonderful  cars  could  stand  the  journeys  on  these  new- 
made  tracks  across  the  fields. 

From  Polotchani  we  went  to  a  point  near  Listopad. 
My  diary  now  reads  more  monotonous,  with  changes 
only  now  and  then.  A  grey  sky  and  I  have  nothing  to 
record.  A  clear  sky  and  I  write  of  bombs — "  x  aero- 
planes, y  bombs,  z  casualties  " — and  this  each  day, 
unless  dull  weather  made  our  days  themselves  more 
dull. 

On  Easter  Sunday,  April  23,  I  rode  to  Voloshin,  thirty 
versts  or  so  away,  and  for  some  days  I  lived  there  as  the 
guest  of  General  Potapov,  one  of  the  youngest  Generals 
in  the  Russian  Army.  In  the  South  African  War, 
General  Potapov,  then  a  junior  officer,  had  been  a  Russian 
attache  with  the  Boers.  At  least  on  one  occasion  he  fell 
into  British  hands.  I  may  mention  here  that  his 
Excellency  Alexander  Ivanovitch  Goutchkov,  the  first 
War  and  Naval  Minister  of  the  Russian  Republic,  also 
served  in  the  Boer  War.  When  I  was  his  guest  in  Poland, 
in  1915,  he  told  me  how  he  had  once  fought  against  the 
British.  He  was  wounded  and  taken  prisoner.  To-day, 
Mr.  Goutchkov  is  slightly  lame  as  a  result  of  that  South 
African  wound.  And  to-day,  in  Russia,  there  is  no 
greater  friend  of  Britain  than  he. 

Twelve  o'clock  strikes  on  Easter  eve,  and  the  great 
Russian  festival  begins.  The  little  bomb-proof  churches, 
built  like  dug-outs  on  the  Russian  Front,  hold  services 
to  which  the  soldiers  go.  For  some  days  before  Easter 
these  services  take  place.  But  with  the  coming  of  Easter 
Day  we  leave  the  church  to  gather  in  our  dining-room. 

"  Khristos  Voskresi !  .  .  .  Christ  is  Risen  !  "  is  the 
greeting  that  each  officer  gives  the  other. 

"  Voistinu  Voskresi !  .  .  .  Truly  He  is  Risen  !  "  is 
the  response. 

And  the  officers  kiss  each  other  three  times  upon  the 
mouth. 

We  eat  most  welcome  luxuries.  Boiled  ham  and  every 
sort  of  sausage.  Coloured  eggs  with  various  designs. 
Fish  of  all  kinds — raw  and  smoked  and  cooked.  Roasts 
of  mutton  and  of  beef.  Special  loaves  of  bread  orna- 
mented with  sugar  icing  and  with  the  letters  "  X.B." 


22        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

— English  "  Kh.  V." — on  top.  A  special  dish  made  of 
milk  and  sugar,  and  resembling  a  sort  of  sweet  cream 
cheese.  Tins  of  stuffed  peppers  and  various  preserves. 
Chocolates  and  bon-bons,  of  which  Russians  are 
specialists.  And  tea  and  biscuits  and  preserved  fruit 
and  jars  of  jam,  which  last  we  sup  from  saucers,  as 
children  love  to  do. 

The  officers  on  Easter  Sunday  greet  their  men. 

"  Christ  is  Risen  !  " 

A  moment's  pause. 

"  Truly  He  is  Risen  !  "  comes  the  answering  shout. 

The  Army  priest,  bearded  and  long  of  hair,  visits 
each  company  or  otriad.  He  wears  his  medals  and  a 
golden  cross  hung  round  his  neck. 

"  Christ  is  Risen  !  " 

"  Truly  He  is  Risen  !  " 

And  the  priest  kisses  each  person  three  times,  and  holds 
his  cross  for  each  true  orthodox  man  or  woman  to  kiss. 

It  is  a  time  of  rejoicing.  "  I  congratulate  you  on 
the  festival,"  is  another  greeting  that  is  given.  And 
then  one  does  not  kiss.  The  Russian  soldiers  get  special 
rations  on  Easter  Day.  Ham  and  sausage  and  eggs 
and  white  bread  form  a  very  welcome  change. 

On  April  24  we  brought  down  two  aeroplanes.  That 
day,  also,  I  drove  to  visit  Colonel  Sergei  Crichton,  a 
member  of  an  old  Scottish  aristocratic  family,  whose 
name  is  to  be  found  in  "  Debrett."  Colonel  Crichton  is 
an  officer  of  the  Russian  Guards.  His  brothers  hold 
high  rank  in  Russia.  He  had  never  been  in  Scotland, 
but  I,  as  a  child,  had  played  amongst  the  ruins  of 
Crichton  Castle  in  Midlothian.  .  .  .  My  diary  on  this 
day  records  "  English  cigarettes  " — showing  the  im- 
portance of  smoking  at  the  Front  ! 

Four  days  later  another  aeroplane  fell  to  our  guns. 
But  with  the  exception  of  the  aeroplanes  and  bombs  each 
day,  and  of  our  artillery  fire  against  the  German 
machines,  the  position  was  very  quiet.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. The  Russian  ship  w^as  riding  at  anchor,  and  we, 
who  waited  somewhat  fretfully,  sailed  as  passengers. 


CHAPTER  III 

EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT 

In  May  I  was  with  the  3rd  Caucasian  Sappers  near 
Krevo.  We  lived  in  a  very  snug  dug-out  beside  the 
forest's  edge.  The  country  here  was  bleak  and  deserted. 
Shell  holes  spotted  the  fields.  Passages  had  been  cleft 
through  the  woods  by  enemy  artillery.  There  was  no 
village  for  many  versts,  only  odd  cottages  and  farm 
buildings  here  and  there.  These  were  chiefly  in  ruins 
and  those  that  were  whole  were  quite  unoccupied. 

The  sappers  did  not  work  by  day.  Each  night  they 
dug  new  communication  trenches  under  safety  of  the 
covering  darkness.  And  each  night  they  tunnelled 
towards  the  German  lines  to  make  new  mine  galleries. 
This  was  nervous,  difficult  work.  One  night  when  I 
was  there  the  men,  while  resting  for  a  brief  spell,  heard 
voices  through  the  wall  of  earth,  and  then  the  sound 
of  picks  and  spades.  The  Germans  were  tunnelling 
parallel  to  them.  Sometimes  the  Russians  and  the 
Germans  would  meet  in  these  mine  galleries  and  a 
sharp  encounter  would  take  place  in  the  dark.  When 
our  sappers  heard  the  enemy  at  work  they  ceased  all 
work  themselves,  waiting  in  total  silence  for  the  possible 
appearance  of  the  German  men. 

On  May  13  I  rode  to  the  trenches  at  half-past  four  in 
the  morning.  Snow  was  falling  and  it  was  bitterly  cold, 
like  winter.  The  pools  of  water  were  frozen.  It  was  a 
very  lonely  ride.  My  friend,  a  commander  of  sappers, 
formerly  a  mining  engineer,  and  I  met  nobody  on  the 
way  save  a  sentry  or  two  who  stamped  heavily  up  and 
down  beside  their  posts  to  try  to  arouse  warmth.  The 
few  dug-outs  we  passed  were  smokeless  ;   the  men  were 

23 


24        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA        j 

all  asleep.  Shell  holes  were  everywhere.  The  enemy 
must  have  hurled  some  thousands  of  shells  onto  the 
plain  and  into  the  woods  behind  our  lines.  It  is  doubtful 
if  they  caused  a  dozen  casualties.  Perhaps  a  passing 
soldier  or  two  might  have  been  hurt.  The  chances  are 
equal  that  not  a  man  was  injured. 

This  is  possible  upon  the  Russian  Front,  although 
improbable  in  France.  I  know  of  one  occasion  here 
when  the  enemy  kept  up  a  continuous  bombardment 
for  close  on  fifteen  hours.  Our  losses,  killed  and  injured, 
were  twenty-nine.  On  still  another  date  at  least  three 
thousand  shells  were  fired  from  German  guns — and  we 
lost  five  men,  only  two  of  whom  were  killed.  I  can 
explain  this  very  simply.  Suppose  there  is  a  small 
cottage  room  crowded  with  men,  and  suppose  a  man 
outside  fires  a  shot  through  the  window.  Certainly  a 
number  of  the  men  inside  would  be  injured  with  the 
pellets.  But  suppose  these  occupants  of  that  packed 
cottage  room  are  in  a  great  roomy  public  hall  and 
another  gun  is  fired  from  the  outside.  Perhaps  all  will 
escape  injury  ;  at  the  most  perhaps  only  one  or  two 
unlucky  ones  will  be  struck.  This,  I  think,  is  a  suf- 
ficiently clear  illustration.  The  French  Front  is  indeed 
a  little  room  compared  with  the  great  floor  space  that 
we  have  here.  The  back  of  our  front  is  very  large. 
Our  battle  area  is  long  and  wide  :  that  of  the  Western 
Front  is  concentrated. 

Moreover,  there  is  this  difference.  The  average 
distance  between  the  enemy's  lines  and  ours  is  much 
greater  than  that  between  the  Allies'  trenches  and 
those  of  the  Germans  in  France.  Should  the  enemy  shell 
our  front  trench,  the  men  can  leave  at  once  for  the  safety 
of  deep  bomb-proof  shelters  in  the  rear.  When  the 
artillery  fire  ceases,  they  can  get  back  to  their  former 
position  in  time  to  check  a  possible  infantry  advance. 
One  cannot  do  that  in  France,  where  the  crossing  can  be 
accomplished  even  under  machine-gun  fire,  in  a  matter  of 
a  minute  or  two.  I  am  no  military  expert.  The  Ger- 
man system  is  not  for  me  to  criticise.  I  only  state  the 
facts — that  they  hurled  a  prodigality  of  shells  on  trenches 
quite  unoccupied,  or  else  they  turned  their  fire  on  our 
reserve  lines,  when  all  our  men  were  safely  at  the  very 
front.     And  they  have  shelled  great  stretches  of  country 


EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT  25 

even  further  back.  We  have  watched  the  German  shells 
exploding  on  the  empty  plain — not  in  ones  and  twos, 
but  in  hundreds — and  we  have  sat  a  little  distance 
off  and  laughed,  as  well  we  might  afford  to  do.  This 
laughter  of  ours  lay  between  the  possible  damage  and 
the  actual  damage  done.  One  trembles  when  one  thinks 
of  what  these  high-explosive  shells  are  capable  of  doing. 
If  each  one  fulfilled  the  mission  on  which  it  was  sent ; 
if  each  one  landed  just  where  it  was  meant  to  do  ;  if 
each  one  reaped  the  greatest  possible  results — the  war, 
I  think,  would  have  been  over  long  ere  this. 

To  the  trenches  on  horseback,  in  the  snow  in  May.  .  .  . 
Artillery  batteries  in  hollows,  screened  from  aeroplanes 
by  portable  fir  trees.  Nearer  the  lines,  some  howitzers  ; 
but  gunners  and  the  guns  were  both  at  rest.  Just  behind 
our  lines  there  was  a  dug-out  town.  The  roofs  were 
strongly  fortified.  Five  layers  of  pine  trunks  ;  five 
layers  of  sand-bags  ;  and  earth  and  fir  tree  branches 
upon  the  top  of  these.  To  enter  these  sleeping  quarters 
one  had  to  go  down  a  little  flight  of  stairs.  The  men  could 
sleep  without  a  thought  of  danger.  There  were  no 
shell  holes  here,  although  the  wood  between  this  camp 
and  the  front  trench  was  thinned  with  frequent  fires. 
Trees  had  been  snapped  in  two.  One  saw  jagged  stumps 
on  every  side.  .  .  .  We  reached  a  little  knoll.  The 
patch  of  pines  there  was  quite  untouched.  A  huge  ladder 
leant  against  the  thickest  tree.  By  means  of  this  one 
climbed  to  a  crow's-nest  observation  point.  The  enemy 
himself  had  cleared  the  space  in  front  so  that  one  had 
an  open  view  of  his  lines.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard. 
Both  sides  were  silent. 

Into  the  communication  trench — a  twisting,  turning, 
zig-zag,  deep-cut  ditch  that  finally  brought  us  to  the 
observation  point  in  front.  It  was  a  clear  morning ; 
the  snow  had  ceased  to  fall ;  and  we  had  an  excellent 
view  of  the  enemy's  position.  Through  the  telescope 
we  saw  his  men  calmly  walking  in  an  open  space  behind 
the  trench.  We  saw  the  curling  smoke  of  early  morning 
cooking  fires.  We  saw  men  carrying  pails  of  water. 
We  saw  some  others  standing  in  a  group  smoking  pipes. 
Our  men  with  rifles  could  not  see  these  soldiers.  They 
were  quite  near,  but  we  had  only  glasses  to  turn  on 


26        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

them.  One  sees  the  enemy  Uke  this  much  as  one  sees 
the  animals  across  the  deep  cut  ditches  in  the  London 
Zoo. 

These  Russian  trenches,  I  have  written,  are  all  alike. 
Untidy  places  fortified  with  earth  and  wood.  A  row  of 
rifles  here :  a  heap  of  hand-grenades  there.  Men 
standing  at  their  posts  by  the  loop-holes.  A  knapsack 
or  two  hanging  on  nails  stuck  in  the  trench's  wooden 
sides  :  a  ration  pan  or  two  upon  the  ground.  Gas  masks 
in  green  tin  boxes,  all  ready  for  wear  :  a  litter  of  empty 
cartridges.  At  intervals  a  mitrailleuse,  and  here  and 
there  some  rockets.  Men  resting,  too,  in  the  trench  itself 
or  in  the  little  dark  caves  cut  in  the  trench's  back. 
What  a  wearisome  game  it  was  in  1916  !  And  what  a 
lazy,  lazy  life  !  These  years  of  warfare  will  spoil  the 
Russian  peasant  for  work  when  peace  arrives.  He  eats, 
of  course,  and  he  drinks  and  he  sleeps — and  he  stands 
about  all  day  doing  nothing.  I  hope  that  I  write 
kindly.  A  dangerous  life,  certainly,  but  a  most  lazy  one. 
We  were  all  lazy,  we  on  that  middle  Russian  Front,  in 
the  resting  year  1916.  One  would  almost  have  thought 
that  we  did  not  take  war  seriously.  But  it  was  not  our 
fault.  .  .  . 

Next  day  brought  German  aeroplanes  to  try  and  locate 
our  guns.  They  circled  above  the  country  where  the 
artillery  stood.  And  they  dropped  some  red  paper 
balloons — one  almost  above  our  quarters.  So  we  kept 
near  our  door  and  waited  for  results.  They  came  within 
an  hour — the  German  six-inch  shells.  And  a  duel  of 
heavy  guns  went  on  all  day — ours  firing  somewhat  half- 
heartedly. All  of  the  enemy  shells  fell  short  of  us,  or 
wide,  and  the  enemy  gunners  worked  once  in  vain.  The 
futility  of  it  all  !  .  .  .  There  was  not  a  Russian  battery 
within  half  a  verst  of  where  the  German  shells  fell.  I 
do  not  know  what  German  official  reports  said  about 
this  day,  about  this  particular  section  of  the  front — the 
Russian  Censor  blacks  out  all  the  German  communiques 
in  the  English  newspapers — but  I  will  tell  the  actual 
damage  done.  More  holes  were  made  in  the  fields,  more 
trees  were  cut  down,  this  latter  saving  the  Russian 
sappers  some  work.  They  always  were  in  need  of 
fallen  wood  to  make  new  trench  supports  and  roofs. 
And  a  German  shell  works  quicker  than  a  cross-cut  saw. 


EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT  27 

The  following  Sunday  I  was  at  Polotchani  when  an 
aeroplane  arrived.  Several  bombs  were  dropped.  One 
landed  on  a  spotted-fever  lazaret  near  the  station 
building.  A  large  tent,  unoccupied,  was  blown  to 
pieces  and  the  metal  beds  which  were  awaiting  patients 
were  cut  up  or  twisted  into  curious  shape.  Pieces  of 
the  bomb  crashed  into  the  adjacent  cottage.  One  sick 
man  was  killed  at  once,  and  a  Sister  of  Charity  and  one 
or  two  other  patients  were  slightly  wounded.  Later, 
another  aeroplane  came.  I  was  in  the  open  fields  at 
the  time — and  got  a  fright.  An  unexploded  shrapnel 
shell,  fired  from  our  own  artillery,  fell  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  me.  I  heard  its  whistle,  and  thought  it  was  a 
bomb.  .  .  .  Much  as  one  dreaded  bombs,  one  dreaded 
equally  our  own  fire.  Above  the  field  where  I  was,  for 
instance,  quite  fifty  Russian  shrapnels  burst.  On  to 
the  field  fell  hundreds  of  balls  from  each  shell,  besides 
the  pieces  of  the  shells  themselves.  I  know  of  several 
instances  where  falling  Russian  shrapnel  heads  killed 
Russian  men,  while  no  one  was  injured  by  the  German 
bombs. 

At  this  time  I  was  living  in  a  Red  Cross  transport 
camp  at  Gorodetchno,  east  of  Listopad.  Every  day, 
morning  and  evening — when  the  weather  was  favour- 
able— we  had  bombs  dropped  on  us.  And  no  wonder  ! 
.  .  .  We  were  camped  amongst  a  little  clump  of  trees 
standing  on  a  knoll  on  the  plain.  By  the  edge  of  this 
was  a  disused  factory,  formerly  a  distillery  of  vodka. 
Less  than  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Red  Cross  tents 
there  was  a  railway  siding.  A  hundred  yards  towards 
the  north  was  an  observation  balloon  :  and  in  a  line 
between  it  and  the  factory  was  an  artillery  'park  to  which 
shells  came  each  day.  Whatever  object  the  aviators 
had  in  view — the  factory  or  the  railway  line  or  the 
artillery  depot  or  the  captive  balloon  (and  I  am  ignoring 
the  possibility  that  they  wished  to  wreck  the  Red  Cross 
camp) — the  bombs  were  just  as  likely  to  land  on  us  as 
not.  That  we  escaped  much  hurt  we  owe  to  the  good- 
ness of  the  gods.  My  scrappy  diary  says  "  Twenty 
bombs,"  "  Five  bombs,"  "  Sixteen  bombs,"  "  Eight 
bombs,"  and  so  on,  quite  monotonously.  And  the 
factory  was  never  struck  ;  the  shell  depot  escaped  all 
injury  ;  the  captive  balloon  had  never  a  single  puncture  ; 


28        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

and  the  railway,  too,  remained  untouched.  One  cot- 
tage, where  some  doctors  lived,  was  wrecked  ;  but  at 
the  time  the  men  were  not  at  home. 

A  certain  nervousness  was  evident.  A  Jew  doctor 
was  to  blame.  He  talked  so  much  of  dreadful  wounds 
he  had  seen,  and  of  the  awful  damage  possible  from 
bombs,  that  he  infused  his  nervousness  and  fears  into  a 
timid  band  of  followers — some  young  Sisters  of  Charity, 
some  students  and  a  sanitar  or  two.  When  aeroplanes 
came  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  doctor  advised 
rising  at  six  o'clock.  At  the  first  sound  of  anti-aircraft 
guns  he  would  descend  with  his  followers  into  the 
darkness  of  a  bomb-proof  shelter,  and  there  they  would 
wait  until  all  danger  had  gone  by.  So  six  o'clock  rising 
became  popular.  But  one  morning  an  aeroplane  came 
at  half-past  four,  so  the  Jew  was  forced  to  rise  henceforth 
at  half-past  three.  This  meant  that  early  in  the  evening 
he  and  his  fellow  timid  ones  would  yawn — and  finally 
it  meant  bed  at  eight  o'clock.  And  this  in  summer  when 
the  evenings  were  beautiful. 

One  morning  the  nervous  Jew  was  up  as  usual  soon 
after  three  o'clock.  It  was  cloudy,  but  dangerous 
patches  of  blue  were  to  be  seen.  He  and  two  students 
decided  that  it  were  safer  not  to  return  to  bed.  They 
sat  about  for  quite  an  hour  and  then  they  thought  that 
they  might  venture  on  a  little  stroll.  So  off  they  went, 
trusting  to  the  fleecy  clouds  that  drifted  overhead. 
They  wandered  peacefully,  till  suddenly  they  heard  a 
cannon  shot.  An  aeroplane  was  coming  after  all  ! 
I  am  assured  that  the  poor  Jew's  legs  refused  to  walk  at 
first.  But  when  they  did  they  speeded  up  most  wonder- 
fully, and  the  distance  back  to  the  hole  in  the  ground 
was  done  in  almost  record  time.  But  here  was  the 
tragedy.  The  blindage  was  already  full,  and  the  new- 
comers could  not  get  a  place  inside  !  And  so  they 
waited  in  the  dreadful  open  air,  with  murder  and  sudden 
death  approaching  in  the  sky. 

Between    Polotchani    and    Gorodetchno    at    a    place 

called  Goradzillow  was  the  St.   George's  No.   1   Field 

Hospital.     This    deserves   very    special    mention.     The 

St.  George's  Sanitary  Organisation  is  the  largest  and 

most    important    in    Russia.     It    controls    thirty-two 

different  hospitals,  five  of  which  are  large  institutions. 

» 
I 


•  •  •  • 

••• 


EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT   29 

The  president  was  the  Dowager-Empress,  Marie  Feo- 
dorovna,  sister  of  Queen  Alexandra.  In  war  time  a 
St.  George's  lazaret  is  the  first  to  go  to  the  front.  The 
organisation  leads  in  war  just  as  it  leads  in  peace. 

The  site  of  the  lazaret  was  formerly  a  farm-steading. 
Then  came  the  sappers.  If  you  give  a  Russian  soldier 
an  axe  and  some  tree  trunks  he  will  make  you  anything 
from  a  camp-stool  to  a  very  well-built  house.  In  two 
weeks  the  Russian  men  made  a  wonderful  hospita 
out  of  a  big  barn.  They  converted  it  to  a  two-story 
building,  well  lit  and  well  ventilated.  There  was 
accommodation  for  four  hundred  and  fifty  wounded 
men.  Stoves  were  made  to  heat  the  two  floors  in  cold 
weather.  Extra  doors  were  made  on  each  side.  An 
airy  operation  room  was  built  at  one  end  ;  also  another 
room  in  which  the  men's  wounds  were  dressed.  Beds 
and  stools  and  benches  and  tables  were  also  made  by  the 
sapper. 

In  another  two  weeks  the  whole  organisation  was 
complete.  There  was  a  great  kitchen  made  and  a 
bakery.  A  laundry  with  the  very  newest  washing  and 
drying  machines  was  built.  Wooden  buildings  and  tents 
were  erected  for  stores.  There  were  also  a  special  dis- 
pensary, and  tents  and  wooden  buildings  for  the  sleep- 
ing quarters  of  doctors,  nurses  and  sanitars.  A  deep 
well  had  been  sunk  and  a  cistern  erected.  This  was 
connected  by  pipes  with  the  kitchen  and  a  special  boiler 
arrangement  ensured  a  continuous  supply  of  hot  water, 
night  and  day.  A  bath-house  had  been  built,  and 
benches  and  little  tables  had  been  made  beneath  the 
fruit  trees  in  an  orchard  behind  the  main  building. 
These  are  not  all.  A  new  railway  siding  had  been  con- 
structed from  the  main  line,  with  a  raised  wooden  plat- 
form and  sheds  in  which  the  wounded  could  shelter  if 
the  weather  should  be  bad  when  they  arrived  at  or  left 
the  lazaret.  Also  there  was  a  little  church — with  a  fret- 
work altar  and  a  dome  and  tapering  spire  of  wood.  An 
ornamental  fence  ran  round  the  building.  A  bell  had 
been  mounted  on  a  pole  in  front. 

The  St.  George's  No.  1  Hospital  organisation  was  the 
most  perfect  of  its  kind  that  I  have  seen  in  Russia. 
That,  perhaps,  is  faint  praise  in  a  country  where  system 
is  seldom  to  be  found :    where  disorder  is  most  to  be 


30 


ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 


seen.  I  will  improve  upon  it  by  saying  that  it  was  one 
of  the  most  satisfactory  sanitary  organisations  I  have 
seen  in  this  war  on  any  front — and  I  have  been  on 
several.  The  personnel  was  not  large  considering  the 
amount  of  work  that  had  to  be  done.  Seventy-four 
male  sanitars  (most  of  whom  were  soldiers  who  had  lost 
fingers  in  the  war  and  were  thus  unfitted  for  active  ser- 
vice), sixteen  Sisters  of  Charity,  five  doctors,  two  of 
whom,  including  the  second  surgeon,  were  ladies,  a  lady 
chemist  and  dispenser,  and  an  X-ray  operator.  Half 
a  dozen  peasant  women  from  the  district  were  the 
laundry  hands.  The  chief  Sister — "  Starschia  Sestra," 
"  Matron  "  in  English — was  Olga  Grigorovna  Dekonsky, 
and  a  sweeter,  kinder,  more  sympathetic  and  more 
capable  lady  does  not  exist  in  Russia.  I  cannot  think 
of  Olga  Grigorovna  without  thinking  of  Florence 
Nightingale,  who  must  have  been  just  such  a  gentle 
woman.  Olga  Grigorovna's  gentleness  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  face  and  manner  would  have  endeared  her  to 
me  in  any  case,  but  there  was  an  additional  attraction 
in  that  she  spoke  English  perfectly.  After  some 
weeks  of  struggling  to  express  myself  in  Russian,  it 
was  a  great  relief  to  be  able  to  speak  my  native  tongue. 
And  so  I  often  rode  to  the  St.  George's  Hospital.  If  I 
am  ever  ill  or  wounded — so  ill  or  so  wounded  that  I 
must  go  to  hospital — I  hope  that  I  will  be  able  to  murmur 
"  Georgievski  Pervi  Lazaret,"  and  I  hope  that  my  wish 
will  be  granted. 

One  day  I  made  a  census  of  the  wounds  of  a  hundred 
men  to  see  what  percentage  had  been  hurt  by  artillery 
fire  compared  with  rifle  bullets,  etc.,  also  as  to  the 
nature  of  their  injuries.  The  result,  brieflv,  was 
this  : 


Cause  of  Wound 


High-explosive  shell  ... 

Rifle  and  machine-gun  bullets 

Shrapnel 

Hand  grenades 

Aeroplane  bombs 

Accidents 

Bayonets 


37 

28 

27 

3 

3 

2 


100 


EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT  31 

Some  men  were  plurally  wounded,  so  the  figures  of  the 
location  of  the  injuries  are  these  : 


Location  of  Wound 


Leg      

Head   (Four  cases  of 
Three  men  dumb 

Body 

Arm 

Hand    ... 

Foot 


"  contusion  " — shell   concussion 
one  deaf  and  dumb.) 


48 

30 

26 

20 

9 

5 


The  three  victims  of  the  aeroplane  bomb  were  artillery- 
men, and  of  the  two  men  hurt  accidentally,  one  had  his 
ribs  broken  by  a  kick  from  a  horse  and  the  other  had  his 
legs  run  over  by  a  cart.  One  man  was  shot  while  fetch- 
ing wood,  another  while  carrying  water,  and  a  third 
while  changing  guard.  These  three  men  had  been 
picked  off  by  snipers.  Of  the  other  twenty-five  men 
injured  by  bullets,  eight  had  received  wounds  in  the 
arm  or  hands,  and  six  in  the  head — and  each  of  the 
fourteen  men  thus  injured  was  at  his  loophole  at  the 
time.  I  give  these  brief  particulars  because  I  am  told 
that  they  are  very  representative  of  the  average  hundred 
wounded  men  in  Russian  trench  warfare,  and  they  may 
prove  of  interest. 

Slightly  injured  men  remained  in  the  St.  George's 
Field  Hospital  until  well  enough  to  return  to  duty. 
Serious  cases  also  remained  there  until  sufficiently  strong 
to  stand  the  long  train  journey  to  the  inland  towns,  but 
all  the  men  whose  wounds  would  take  some  time  to  heal 
but  who  were  otherwise  not  very  gravely  hurt,  were  sent 
off  east  in  sanitary  trains  after  a  day  or  so.  The 
hospital  was  a  sort  of  clearing  house  of  men. 

Heavy  gun  fire  took  place  on  May  31,  and  on  the  night 
of  June  1  and  early  morning  of  June  2  a  great  artillery 
duel  went  on  towards  the  north  of  our  position.  Fires 
caused  by  shells  were  reflected  in  the  sky.  Our  own 
particular  division  was  quiet.  My  diary  of  June  1 
records  "  Asparagus,"  and,  almost  as  an  afterthought, 
"  Great  artillery  duel  1  "  Guns  one  expects  when  one 
is  at  the  Front :  but  fresh  asparagus  for  supper  in  a 
draughty  canvas  tent  upon  a  bleak  plain — "  a  hundred 


32        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

miles  from  anywhere  !  " — comes  as  a  most  undreamt- 
of luxury  and  thus  earns  pride  of  place.  In  this  entry, 
too,  there  is  a  significance.  Heaven  knows  I  am  no 
gourmand,  the  question  of  food  interests  me  but  little 
unless  I  am  very  hungry,  yet  I  find  that  I  am  con- 
stantly noting  what  we  have  to  eat.  Why  ? — I  do  not 
know  ;  unless,  perhaps,  because  meal-times  were  the 
only  break  in  the  monotony  of  our  days  ;  unless,  per- 
haps, because  the  stagnation  on  that  middle  Western 
Front  was  such  that  any  little  item — "  asparagus  "  to 
wit — was  welcomed  as  a  notable  event.  I  do  not 
mention  in  my  diary  the  other  items  of  the  meal — one 
does  not  need  to  note  what  one  has  every  day.  Black 
bread  and  kasha  and  cabbage  soup  and  a  sort  of  stew  of 
chopped-up  salted  meat  of  most  uncertain  age — and 
tea.     The  samovars  are  always  ready. 

The  enemy  "  demonstrated,"  as  they  say  here,  once 
again  on  the  evening  and  night  of  Sunday,  June  11. 
His  aeroplanes,  correcting  fire,  hovered  hawk-like  above 
our  lines.  Dusk  came  and  still  the  aeroplanes  remained, 
dropping  star  shells  and  red  lights  every  now  and  then. 
We  sat  on  a  bank  of  ground  and  watched  the  flashes 
of  the  guns  and  the  bursting  of  the  shrapnel  shells. 
The  spectacle  was  wonderful,  as  such  demonstrations 
always  are.  And  the  enemy  guns'  bark  is  worse  than 
their  shells'  bite,  as  we  have  found  since  settling  down  to 
trench  warfare.  .  .  .  Another  "  demonstration "  oc- 
curred on  the  20th.  This  time  the  shrapnels  came  very 
near  us,  and  a  succession  of  shells  fell  in  the  fields  on 
either  side  of  a  raihvay  point  less  than  four  hundred  yards 
away.  Both  these  attacks  were  quite  one-sided.  We 
did  nothing.  Not  because  we  had  no  shells,  as  was  the 
case  the  previous  year,  but  because — I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  that  officers  talked  freely  of  the  punishment 
that  might  follow  any  initiative — punishment  from  the 
enemy  in  Petrograd.  And  I  knew  that  when  General 
Brussilov  bagged  his  300,000  men  in  Galicia,  we  almost 
expected  that  he  would  be  recalled.  The  enemy  at 
our  backs  was  more  powerful  than  the  foe  we 
faced. 

In  1915,  on  the  Russian  Front,  the  popular  anecdote 
was  that  of  the  dilemma  of  the  Tsarevitch.     The  boy 


EARLY  SUMMER  ON  THE  MIDDLE  FRONT  33 

was  said  to  have  complained  tearfully  that  his  life  was 
very  unhappy.  "  When  the  Germans  gain  a  victory, 
father  cries,"  he  was  supposed  to  have  said,  "  and  when 
the  Germans  are  defeated,  mother  cries."  But  in  1916 
this  was  replaced  by  a  conundrum  :  "  What  is  the 
capital  of  Russia  ?  "  one  was  asked.  "  Petrograd,"  one 
replied.  "  No — Berlin,"  said  the  man  who  gave  the 
question — and  everyone  laughed.  .  .  . 

On  June  21  we  shot  down  an  aeroplane,  which 
crashed  to  earth  from  a  great  height  and  was  smashed 
into  a  mass  of  splinters  and  twisted  pieces  of  metal. 
Both  aviators  were  killed.  That  week  also  saw  the 
movement  of  many  troops.  Several  regiments  left  our 
district  to  go  further  south — to  fill  the  gaps  in  General 
Brussilov's  army.  One  cannot  take  300,000  men — even 
though  many  were  undoubtedly  Czechs  and  voluntary 
prisoners — without  paying  a  heavy  price.  These  regi- 
ments marched  across  the  plain  in  long  processions. 
An  officer  or  two  on  horseback  rode  ahead.  Then  came 
the  regimental  band.  The  men  themselves  marched  at 
ease.  Donkeys  laden  with  water  barrels  and  sacks  of 
food  walked  at  the  side,  jibbing  every  now  and  then  when 
a  line  of  barbed  wire  or  a  reserve  trench  was  reached. 
The  soldiers  in  attendance  pulled  and  others  pushed  the 
stubborn  little  brutes — so  all  got  to  the  railway  point  in 
time.  There  the  band  played  a  sad  waltz — "  The 
Broken  String  " — and  the  men  clambered  into  goods 
wagons,  twenty  or  even  thirty  into  each,  and  when  the 
train  finally  went  off  they  crowded  at  the  open  doors 
and  cheered  and  sang  as  though  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  war. 

And  so  the  dreary  weeks  went  by.  Enemy  aeroplanes 
and  enemy  bombs  :  a  few  horses  killed,  a  cottage  or  a 
tent  destroyed,  a  few  men  killed  or  wounded — these 
were  the  weekly  casualties.  Enemy  "  demonstrations  " 
that  did  us  little  harm.  Shells  in  considerable  quantities 
— when  we  did  nothing  with  them,  although  we  hoped 
each  week  that  we  would  attack.  Four  French  aviators 
with  splendid  records  arrived — but  their  machines  did 
not,  and  the  ones  the  Russians  had  were  out-of-date 
and  slow.     For  many  weeks  the  Frenchmen  had  to  sit 

D 


34        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

and  wait,  doing  nothing.  .  .  .  An  enemy  gas  attack 
at  intervals  of  weeks.  But  nothing  else  happened. 
Hopelessly  dull,  hopelessly  dreary,  hopelessly  hope- 
less! 

I  was  a  pessimist  in  those  first  six  months  of  1916. 
And  then  I  was  ill,  so  I  packed  my  kit  and  went  away. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WAR  TIME  TRAVELLING   IN   RUSSIA 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  that  Russia  had  to 
contend  with  was  the  question  of  distance.  Railway 
communication  was  very  bad.  Railroads  were  few  and 
many  of  such  as  were  had  only  single  lines.  There  was 
a  scarcity  of  wagons,  and  certainly  there  was  an 
absence  of  organisation.  Even  had  the  most  perfect 
system  of  working  been,  the  difficulties  would  still  have 
remained  very  great.  The  Baltic  was  closed  to  merchant 
ships  :  so  was  the  Black  Sea  :  Russia  had  only  two  ports 
— Archangel  and  Vladivostok.  The  former  was  ice- 
bound for  several  months  each  year,  the  latter  was  very 
far  away.  Great  quantities  of  ammunition  and  guns 
and  stores  had  to  be  brought  from  these  two  distant 
ports  to  the  front.  Armies  of  men  had  to  be  moved 
great  distances  by  rail  to  reach  other  parts  of  the  Front, 
not  very  far  away  as  aeroplanes  fly.  The  wounded 
men  were  at  least  four  or  five  days  in  the  sanitary  trains 
on  their  way  to  Moscow  or  Petrograd  or  even  to  the 
nearer  town  of  Kiev.  The  communication  to  the  Cau- 
casian Front  was  even  worse.  Men  and  guns  and 
ammunition  and  stores  were  several  weeks  on  the  way 
by  train.  Some  goods  wagons  brought  back  wounded 
men.  Some  returned  empty  :  the  wagons  were  out  of 
use  for  weeks  at  a  time.  In  1915,  when  I  was  in  a 
military  train,  we  were  five  days  en  route  from  Orsha 
to  Minsk.  The  ordinary  time  for  that  journey  is  eight 
hours.  The  chief  difficulty  and  the  chief  delays  are  in 
cross-country  travelling.  In  October,  1916,  the  British 
armoured  cars  were  sixteen  days  in  the  train  in  the 
journey  from  Kars  to  Odessa. 

D  2 


86        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

In  many  cases  matters  could  have  been  improved. 
Between  Polotchani  and  Listopad  there  was  a  single 
railway  line.  On  this  all  stores  and  ammunition  travelled 
west,  and  wounded  travelled  east.  After  the  retreat 
of  1915  had  come  to  an  end,  a  second  line  was  laid.  But 
up  till  the  month  of  June,  1916,  this  line  was  not  used. 
It  was  useless.  The  rails  were  so  unevenly  laid  that  no 
train  could  possibly  have  kept  on  them.  The  line  could 
have  been  made  serviceable  in  a  very  few  weeks,  but 
nothing  was  done. 

"  Who  is  responsible  ?  "  I  asked  an  officer  of  the 
Railway  Battalion. 

"  Everybody — and  nobody,"  he  answered. 

And  there  you  have  the  explanation  of  much  of  the 
trouble  in  Russia.  Everyone  was  responsible — and 
nobody  was.  "  There,  now,"  say  Russian  officers, 
"  that  is  typical.  Everybody  and  nobody.  That  is 
quite  Russian."  The  average  Russian  knows  the  faults 
of  his  country  and  is  always  willing  to  discuss  them 
freely.  He  seldom  defends  them.  "  Oh  !  that's  Russia," 
he  says — and  shrugs.  He  will  even  recount  incidents 
ad  gloriam  minorem  of  his  native  land.  ...  I  find  myself 
swearing  by  Britain  and  all  the  things  that  Britain  does. 
There  is  none  such  patriotism  in  Russia.  .  .  .  But  I 
am  writing  now  of  pre-r evolution  days.  .  .  . 

It  is  not  easy  to  travel  by  train  in  Russia  in  war 
time.  The  carriages  are  very  crowded.  There  is  an 
insufficiency  of  trains.  Time-tables  do  not  help  one. 
Few  regular  services  are  run.  Sometimes  the  lines  are 
closed  to  all  but  goods  traffic  for  a  week  at  a  time.  If 
one  speaks  Russian  imperfectly  the  difficulties  are  even 
greater — unless  one  is  British.  Then  there  are  a  thou- 
sand doors  that  open  to  the  sesamic  word  *'  Anglay- 
chanyin." 

I  have  been  more  than  two  years  on  the  Russian  Front, 
and  never  once  have  I  been  asked  to  show  my  passport. 
At  first  this  was  somewhat  surprising  to  me.  In  my 
pre-war  thoughts  of  Russia  passports  had  figured  largely. 
...  In  towns,  of  course  the  hotel  managers  demanded 
one's  passport  on  arrival,  but  on  two  occasions  when  I 
was  in  town  passportless  I  simply  filled  in  a  paper 
blank  and  nothing  more  was  said.     But  a  stranger  in 


WAR  TIME  TRAVELLING  IN  RUSSIA        87 

Petrograd  or  Moscow  is  of  small  importance  compared 
with  a  stranger  at  the  Front.  I  have  been  with  the 
artillery  and  in  the  trenches  ;  with  Cossack  companies 
and  with  a  sapper  rota  (a  section  of  250  men) ;  in  aero- 
dromes and  in  captive  balloons  ;  in  various  divisional 
staff  quarters  and  in  the  Army  Corps  staff  buildings — 
and  no  one  has  ever  questioned  my  right  to  be  there. 
"  Anglaychanyin  "  ("  Englishman  ")  that  is  quite  suffi- 
cient. Your  Russian  is  much  too  trusting,  much  too 
kind.  It  must  be  easy  to  be  a  spy  in  Russia.  I  have 
had  secrets  told  me  which  I  cannot  write  of  now  :  I 
have  seen  plans  that  no  one  short  of  a  high  officer  should 
see — and  I  have  travelled  freely  wherever  I  wished  to  do. 
As  a  human  being,  I  certainly  have  no  cause  for  com- 
plaint ;  but  as  a  British  subject  and  no  lover  of  the 
Germans  and  their  spies,  I  find  that  this  freedom  is 
very  wrong. 

Railway  tickets,  for  instance.  I  go  to  the  Commandant 
of  a  station  and  I  recite  my  words  :  "I  am  a  subject  of 
Great  Britain.  I  wish  to  go  to  a  certain  town.  Please 
give  me  a  ticket." 

"  Anglaychanyin  ?  " 

"Da  ...  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Anglaychanyin." 

And  the  Commandant  smiles  on  me  and  shakes  hands, 
and  offers  me  a  cigarette,  and  gives  orders  for  a  ticket 
to  be  written  out  for  me  at  once.  He  asks  me  how  long 
I  have  been  in  Russia  ;  if  Russia  pleases  me  ;  if  I  was 
in  Russia  before  the  war,  and  many  other  questions. 
He  also  asks  me  when  I  think  the  war  will  finish.  .  .  . 
A  soldier  fetches  my  ticket.  The  Commandant  glances 
at  it,  then  gives  it  to  me.  We  shake  hands,  and  off  I  go. 
.  .  .  True,  I  am  in  Russian  uniform — but  so  are  most  of 
Germany's  spies.  Their  epaulettes  are  of  a  higher  rank 
than  mine.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  I  travel  ticketless.  The  conductor  arrives. 
"  I  am  an  Englishman,"  I  say.  One  does  not  differ- 
entiate between  Englishmen,  Scotsmen  or  Irishmen  in 
Russia.  The  one  word  "  Anglaychanyin  "  covers  us 
all. 

"  Ah  !  .  .  .  .  Anglaychanyin  ?  "  the  conductor  says, 
running  his  eyes  over  me  to  see  if  our  general  outline  is 
the  same. 

"  Da.  .  .  .  Anglaychanyin." 


88        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  Oh  !  very  well,  very  well,"  and  no  more  questions 
are  asked. 

But  to  do  this  is  not  enough,  sometimes.  One  has 
to  be  tactical.  On  one  occasion  I  had  a  paper  entitling 
me  to  a  second-class  ticket,  without  "  place  card," 
provided  there  was  room.  I  gave  this  to  the  booking 
office  clerk  in  Petrograd  and  asked  him  for  a  ticket  to 
Moscow. 

"  There  is  no  room,"  he  said. 

This  was  not  surprising.  At  this  time  civilians  who 
wished  to  travel  to  Moscow  from  Petrograd  had  to  secure 
their  tickets  some  weeks  in  advance.  ...  I  offered  to 
pay  full  fare,  but  that  made  no  difference.  The  man 
said  the  train  was  full. 

I  went  to  the  Natchalnik  Stantzii — the  station-master. 
He  told  me  he  could  do  nothing.  I  was  in  a  hurry  and 
I  did  not  wish  to  remain  longer  in  Petrograd,  so  I  went 
to  the  military  commandant  of  the  station,  who  had  a 
small,  dingy,  untidy  office  in  a  nearby  street.  He  could 
do  nothing  for  me  except  to  advise  me  to  get  on  the 
train  without  a  ticket  and  chance  my  luck. 

The  unreserved  carriages  were  absolutely  packed  with 
passengers,  so  I  went  into  one  of  the  carriages  where 
there  were  reserved  berths — "  place  cards  "  are  required 
for  these.  I  found  a  vacant  number  so  I  settled  in  the 
compartment.  Later,  when  the  train  had  left  the  station 
the  assistant  conductor  came  for  the  tickets.  I  told  him 
I  was  "  Anglaychanyin." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  and  smiled  most  kindly. 

I  thought  that  the  matter  would  end  there,  but  half 
an  hour  later  the  chief  conductor  came  along.  He  was  a 
stout,  most  important-looking  man,  wearing  a  long  white 
Russian  tunic,  a  white  cap  with  much  braid  and  green 
velvet  on  it,  gaudy  epaulettes,  a  coloured  sash  and 
numerous  badges  and  decorations. 

"  This  man,"  I  thought,  "  must  be  dealt  with  tacti- 
cally," so  I  rose  to  my  feet  on  his  arrival  and  saluted  as 
though  he  were  a  General.  He  smiled  kindly  and 
happily. 

"  Ya  Anglaychanyin,"  said  I. 

"Ah  !  .  .  .  .  Anglaychanyin  ?  " 

"  Tak  tochno.  .  .  .  Precisely  so,"  said  I  in  the 
language  of  the  Russian  soldiers  to  their  officers,  and  of 


WAR  TIME  TRAVELLING  IN  RUSSIA        89 

the  junior  officers  to  the  men  of  high  rank.  Also  I 
saluted  again. 

The  chief  conductor  smiled  kindly.  .  .  .  Then  he 
ordered  the  second  man  to  fetch  a  pillow  for  me,  and 
sheets  and  a  rug. 

"  Without  charge,"  said  he. 

I  saluted  and  thanked  him. 

"  Please  !  "  he  said,  and  went  off. 

There  was  a  Russian  officer  in  the  compartment. 
He  spoke  to  me  in  French. 

"  Why  did  you  salute  ?  "  he  asked,  amazedly.  "  He  " 
— contemptuously — "  is  no  officer  !  " 

"  I  know,"  said  I.  "  Anyhow,  he  looks  like  one.  .  .  . 
I  have  no  place  card." 

"  Yes— but " 

"  And  I  have  no  ticket." 

"  Yes— but " 

"  And  I  am  anxious  to  get  to  Moscow." 


But- 


"  And  politeness  costs  nothing,"  I  added. 

He  laughed.     "  Your  politeness   has   saved  you  the 
cost  of  the  hire  of  bed  linen,"  he  said. 

There  were  tips  to  be  given,  of  course.  But  in  Russia 
one  has  to  give  tips  lavishly  in  any  case. 

On  other  occasions  I  have  asked  for  a  second-class 
ticket — which,  as  an  officer  in  the  Russian  Army,  I  am 
entitled  to  have  free  of  charge — and  these  kind  Russian 
commandants  have  given  me  a  pass  for  a  small  first-class 
reserved  coupe.  Once — it  was  on  the  journey  from  Kiev 
to  Odessa — the  Commandant  at  Kiev  ordered  a  soldier 
to  conduct  me  to  a  first-class  reserved  compartment, 
but  he  forgot  to  send  me  the  ticket  he  had  promised, 
so  I  travelled  without  one.  I  said  "  Anglaychanyin  " 
to  the  conductor.  That  satisfied  him.  He  locked  the 
door  of  my  coupe  to  keep  out  other  passengers.  Later 
on  a  very  charming  Russian  naval  officer — he  turned  out 
to  be  Prince  Gagarine — asked  me,  as  a  favour,  if  I 
would  allow  him  to  travel  in  my  coupe,  as  the  train  was 
so  crowded  !  .  .  .  . 

Heaven  knows,  I  do  not  complain — except  to  say  that 
it  would  be  better  policy  to  ask  to  see  my  passports 
first.  But  perhaps  I  have  a  specially  honest  face  ?  .  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know.     I  do  know  that  it  is  not  a  Russian  one — 


40        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

8{jid  that  ought,  in  war  time,  to  condemn  me  to  be  treated 
with  suspicion. 


II 

From  the  position  to  the  nearest  station  from  which 
trains  run  to  Petrograd  or  Moscow,  one  does  not  require 
a  ticket.  There  are  no  civiHans  in  these  army  trains, 
and  one's  uniform  is  considered  quite  enough  to  justify 
one's  place.  Almost  invariably  these  trains  run  at  night. 
They  are  unlit  save  for  a  dim  candle  at  either  end  of  the 
long  carriages.  One  cannot  read  :  and  sometimes  the 
time  of  journey,  even  of  a  dozen  miles,  is  very  long. 
Sometimes  no  passenger-carriages  run.  Then  one  must 
travel  as  best  one  can. 

I  left  a  special  military  station  near  the  position  in  a 
small  sanitary  train  that  ran  as  far  as  Polotchani  only. 
I  travelled  in  one  of  the  white-painted  goods  wagons 
with  a  dozen  wounded.  From  Polotchani  to  Molo- 
detchno  I  travelled  on  the  open  platform  at  the  end  of  a 
goods  truck,  sitting  on  my  baggage.  And  at  Molo- 
detchno,  while  I  was  having  tea  with  some  officers  whom 
I  had  first  met  in  Poland  in  1915,  and  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  more  than  a  year,  the  only  train  to  Polotsk — a 
special  train  with  several  aeroplanes — set  off  suddenly 
and  I  was  left  behind.  But  at  night,  at  half-past  ten, 
there  was  a  locomotive  going  to  Polotsk  with  a  single 
goods  wagon  full  of  railway  men,  so  I  travelled  in  it. 
We  were  sixty  altogether,  including  two  other  officers 
and  a  little  elderly  Sister  of  Charity  who  slept  on  the  floor 
at  our  feet.  At  Polotsk,  in  the  morning,  I  got  a  passen- 
ger train  to  Petrograd. 

Special  carriages,  second-class,  are  reserved  for 
**  Voennie  "  (military)  people — officers  and  doctors  and 
nurses.  These  carriages  are  usually  very  crowded.  To 
make  matters  worse,  there  are  no  baggage  vans,  so  that 
the  racks  and  corridors  and  entrances  and  even  the  floors 
of  the  compartments  are  all  loaded  with  all  kinds  of 
clumsy  baggage.  Round  wooden  boxes — like  giant 
pill  boxes — are  favourite  forms  of  baggage.  The  wood, 
I  think,  is  birch  or  ash — I  am  not  sure  ;  but  it  is  thin 
and  strong  and  tough,  and  yellow  varnished.     The  lids 


li  t  '^'iS-  i . .  ■  tr- '  'di^y^^M-^A 


Refreshments  En  Route. 


[Paffe  40 


WAR  TIME  TRAVELLING  IN  RUSSIA        41 

are  fastened  down  with  single  straps,  like  those  one  sees 
on  tailors'  band-boxes.  Sometimes  the  boxes  are 
square  or  oblong  instead  of  round.  They  seem  to  hold 
a  lot,  whatever  shape  they  are.  Portmanteaux  made 
of  tartan-checked  canvas — dreadful  cheap-looking  Ger- 
man ware — are  next  in  evidence.  And  every  true 
Russian,  military  or  not,  carries  his  own  pillow  and 
bedding  wherever  he  goes.  Then  there  are  our  swords 
and  our  great  coats,  the  latter  taking  up  much  room  ; 
baskets  containing  teapots  and  kettles  and  glasses  and 
food  (every  other  officer  had  one  of  these)  and  the 
parcels  of  provisions  that  the  officers  take  home.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  scarcity  of  sugar  in  Russia,  except  at  the 
Front,  where  each  man  had  a  liberal  allowance.  Officers 
saved  what  they  did  not  use,  so  finally  it  went  to  town 
to  cheer  a  sugarless  household.  Money  could  not  buy 
sugar.  There  was  none  to  be  had.  Someone  was 
waiting  for  a  very  high  price.  Someone's  greed  was  very 
great. 

There  are  no  dining  carriages  on  the  trains.  One 
snatches  one's  meals  at  station  buffets  whenever  one 
has  the  chance.  The  conductor  announces  the  time  the 
train  will  stand  at  the  station.  Ten  minutes,  perhaps — 
twenty — half  an  hour — an  hour  and  a  half.  The  bigger 
the  station,  the  longer  the  stay.  The  moment  the  train 
stops  one  rushes  to  the  restaurant.  Most  of  these  buffet 
rooms  are  alike.  If  I  describe  one  I  will  describe  them 
all.  A  big  room  with  tiled  floor.  In  one  corner,  close 
up  to  the  ceiling,  there  is  an  ikon  with  a  thin  candle 
burning  in  a  little  coloured  dish  in  front.  At  one  end 
of  the  room  is  a  high  counter  on  which  are  sandwiches 
and  "  butter-brod  "  (small  pieces  of  bread  with  slices 
of  ham  or  cheese  or  sausage  or  fish  or  a  layer  of  caviare 
on  top — half  sandwiches,  in  fact,  the  upper  layer  of 
bread  being  absent)  ;  packets  of  chocolate  and  sweets  ; 
cigarettes  ;  bottles  of  coloured  mineral  water  ;  fruit. 
At  one  end  of  the  counter  are  large  steaming  samovars, 
with  glasses  already  filled  with  tea  on  a  tray  in  front. 
At  the  other  end  are  pots  of  cabbage  soup,  great  cooking 
dishes  filled  with  "  cutlets,"  meat  rissoles,  lumps  of 
beef  or  mutton  or  pork,  and  potatoes.  If  one  has  only 
ten  minutes  allowed  one,  it  is  best  to  go  to  the  counter 
and  receive  one's  food  oneself.     Or,  to  be  quite  safe,  it 


42        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

is  well  to  buy  sandwiches  or  loaves  of  bread  and  portions 
of  meat  and  take  them  away  with  one  to  eat  them  in  the 
train.  ...  If  the  train  stops  for  a  long  time  one  can 
sit  at  one  of  the  long  tables  and  give  one's  order  to  a 
waiter.  Then  one  can  eat  in  comparative  comfort, 
although  every  now  and  then  a  general  or  a  staff  colonel 
comes  into  the  room  and  fetches  one  to  one's  feet  to 
salute.  Also  one  has  to  ask  the  senior  officer's  permission 
to  smoke  should  one  be  at  his  table.  This  request  almost 
invariably  embarrasses  the  poor  man  :  he  has  to  mumble 
his  permission  with  his  mouth  full. 

One  has  to  eat  quickly,  as  a  rule.  Sometimes  one 
has  no  time  to  finish  one's  meal.  Two  bells  are  rung — 
the  signal  to  get  on  board  the  train.  There  is  a  grating 
of  chairs  hastily  abandoned.  One  thrusts  some  money 
into  a  bewildered  servant's  hand  and  rushes  off,  mouth 
full,  sometimes  a  piece  of  bread  in  hand.  There  is 
absolutely  no  system.  The  caterers  trust  to  the  honesty 
of  their  customers  in  the  matter  of  payment.  Personally, 
I  have  usually  paid  too  much.  ...  I  have  had  to  run 
away  before  I  received  my  change. 

The  buffet  is  also  the  first  and  second-class  waiting 
room.  Baggage  rests  close  to  the  walls,  at  the  ends  of 
the  tables,  and  at  the  bases  of  the  columns  that  are 
usually  to  be  found  supporting  the  ceilings.  There 
are  many  travellers  who  do  not  eat ;  they  simply  crowd 
the  room.  Tired  officers  sleep  on  their  luggage  or  on 
the  benches  near  the  walls,  or  at  the  tables,  their  heads 
resting  on  their  arms.  .  .  .  There  is  a  newspaper  stall 
in  the  restaurant  also  with  a  woman  in  charge.  Here 
are  various  newspapers,  a  few  days  old,  back  number 
journals,  paper-backed  books  (all  Russian  books  are 
issued  in  paper  covers,  with  the  exception  of  special 
editions  de  luxe)  and  postcards  and  postage  stamps. 

Two  bells,  and  one  hurries  to  the  platform.  .  .  . 
Three  bells,  and  one  enters  the  train  as  it  moves  slowly 
off.  One  finds  it  difficult  to  pass  along  the  corridor. 
More  passengers  and  luggage  have  somehow  found  a 
place  there.  The  new  faces  interest  one  for  a  time. 
And  there  is  tea  to  be  had.  At  every  station  there  are 
large  boilers  on  the  platform  with  a  constant  supply  of 
hot  water.  All  those  who  have  their  kettles  with  them 
fill  them  at  these  boilers  in  order  to  make  tea  in  the 


WAR  TIME  TRAVELLING  IN  RUSSIA        43 

train.  There  is  always  time  to  get  hot  water,  even  if 
the  train  stops  for  only  five  minutes.  Then  we  drink 
tea  out  of  our  glasses — or  out  of  one  glass,  turn  about. 
One  has  to  hurry  to  empty  one's  glass  in  order  to  give 
it  to  the  next  man. 

And  thus  we  travel  back  to  town,  and  back  to  the 
Front  again.  It  is  most  uncomfortable,  yet  one  is  quite 
happy.  One's  fellow-passengers  are  always  very  kind 
— they  share  their  provisions  with  one  with  true  Russian 
hospitality,  and  generally  are  very  sociable.  Besides, 
the  average  train  is  more  comfortable  than  a  hole  in  the 
ground — although  in  the  matter  of  fresh-air  the  stuffy 
hole  is  to  be  preferred. 

For  the  soldiers  on  these  long  train  journeys  there  are 
hawkers  who  sell  various  eatables  at  every  railway 
station.  Each  soldier  has  his  own  teapot  and  his  own 
tea  and  sugar.  He  can  also  buy  loaves  of  bread  and 
sausages  and  other  luxuries  from  the  firm  of  army 
caterers,  Babushka  and  Tyotha. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   CAUCASUS — ^VIA   CRIMEA 

From  Petrograd  to  the  Caucasus,  one  travels  directly 
to  Tiflis,  via  Moscow.  But  I  went  a  long  way  round  in 
search  of  health.  To  Finland  for  a  few  weeks — to 
breathe  the  air  in  pine  forests  ;  to  lie  upon  a  sandy  shore 
beside  the  sea  ;  to  motor  over  undulating  roads  past 
sunny  villages  and  dark  blue  sparkling  lakes  rimmed  by 
black  woods  ;  to  picnic  in  the  shade  by  the  wayside  ; 
and  for  all  these  joys  that  were  so  very  dear  after  the 
weary  life  upon  the  front,  I  owe  a  debt  of  thankfulness 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Thornton,  of  Petrograd.  Ten 
miles  from  Terioky  lay  their  datcha  (country  house). 
I  christened  this  place  "  Thornton's-by-the-sea."  One 
stepped  out  from  one's  room  to  a  wide  lawn  that  stretched 
up  to  the  shore.  Flower  beds  and  shady  trees  and  orna- 
mental shrubs.  .  .  .  Roses  of  every  shade  of  red  that 
rained  their  petals  on  the  summer  breeze.  And  there 
were  days  of  fishing  in  the  sea,  when  one  returned  at 
night  with  many  fish.  And  there  was  a  dark  bedded 
river  up  which  to  row  when  the  cool  evening  came.  .  .  . 
And  there  were  the  lights  of  Kronstadt  that  scoured  the 
sky  all  through  the  night  in  search  of  Zeppelins. 

Thus  I  found  health,  and  set  out  for  the  Caucasus. 
At  Moscow  there  was  a  telegram  for  me  from  Colonel 
de  Bargigli,  with  whom  I  had  lived  and  worked  upon  the 
Polish  Front.  He  wired  from  the  Crimea  that  he  was 
very  ill.  Heart  trouble.  Would  I  go  and  see  him  ? 
...  Of  course  I  would,  so  I  went  off  to  Yalta. 

Between  Moscow  and  Kharkov  there  was  a  railway 
station — a  tiny  place  whose  name  I  did  not  ascertain. 


THE  CAUCASUS— VIA  CRIMEA  45 

There  are  no  signboards  at  these  stations  such  as  we  in 
England  have.  The  name  is  painted  on  the  ends  of  the 
station  building  and  also  above  the  main  door.  Just 
south  of  this  point,  in  a  field  bordering  the  line,  a  mass  of 
bells  of  all  sizes  were  lying  in  the  open  air.  Ornamental 
bells  with  strange  lettering  and  designs  on  the  copper. 
These  were  the  bells  of  Warsaw,  taken  away  by  the 
Russians  when  the  Polish  town  was  evacuated,  to  prevent 
the  precious  metal  falling  into  German  hands.  Other 
Polish  church  bells  were  there,  too.  I  wonder  if  they 
will  ever  be  restored  again.  .  .  . 

Night,  and  I  was  very  tired.  I  climbed  up  to  my 
berth  to  sleep.  An  hour  later  I  awoke.  The  coupe  door 
opened  a  little,  then  was  shut  with  a  bang.  Then  it 
opened  again — and  again  was  banged  to.  This  went  on 
for  some  minutes.  Sleep  was  impossible  :  and  it  was 
after  midnight.  I  rose  to  see  what  was  happening. 
I  went  into  the  corridor  and  I  saw  the  explanation.  A 
well-dressed  man  in  civilian  clothes  was  there  with  a 
bag  of  nuts  in  his  hand.  He  had  no  crackers  :  possibly 
he  did  not  wish  to  risk  his  teeth,  so  he  opened  my  door 
slightly,  inserted  a  nut  in  the  space,  pushed  the  door 
hard  to,  and  broke  the  nut.  Then  he  calmly  repeated 
the  performance,  chewing  vigorously. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  I.     "  But  I  want  to  sleep." 

"  What  ?  "  said  he  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  I  want  to  sleep,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"  I  cannot  sleep  while  you  break  nuts,"  said  I. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  somewhat  surprised.  Then,  "  Are 
you  an  Englishman  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

*'  Oh  !^l  he  said — this  time  as  if  my  nationality  alone 
was  responsible  for  my  inability  to  sleep.  He  smiled 
and  walked  along  the  corridor  to  the  door  at  the  end  and 
continued  to  crack  nuts  there  while  I  returned  to  my 
berth. 

The  train  was  very  stuffy.  As  we  went  further  south 
it  became  worse.  The  carriages  were  full  of  dust.  I 
wearied  for  a  bath.  If  one  wishes  to  wash  in  the  morn- 
ing in  these  long-distance  trains  one  must  rise  very  early. 
Otherwise  one  has  to  wait  one's  turn  standing  in  a 
queue  in  the  corridor,  towel  and  toilet  outfit  in  hand, 


46        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

and  the  chances  are  that  the  water  will  have  given  out 
before  one  gets  into  the  lavatory.  Some  travellers  do 
not  think  to  wash  at  all.  They  carry  a  towel  with  them 
and  a  bottle  of  Eau-de-Cologne  or  other  perfume. 
This  they  sprinkle  on  the  towel  and  then  they  rub  their 
faces  with  it.  And  that  is  all.  It  is  quick  ;  it  saves 
time ;  and,  certainly,  it  refreshes  one.  There  are 
lavatories  at  the  big  stations,  but  they  are  dreadful 
places.  The  tiled  floors  are  wet  and  muddy.  The 
basins  are  simply  filthy  sinks.  .  .  .  Oh !  certainly, 
scent  is  better  far  than  soap  and  water  there.  .  .  . 

In  peace  time  one  goes  to  Yalta  by  way  of  Sevastopol, 
either  by  steamer  or  by  road  along  the  southern  Crimean 
coast.  In  war  time  Sevastopol  is  closed.  I  learned  this 
at  Simferopol. 

"  Have  you  a  permit  from  the  Governor  ?  "  a  railway 
official  asked  me. 

I  had  not.  My  army  passport  was  not  enough,  said 
the  official.  And  at  that  moment  another  passenger 
came  into  the  buffet-room  calling  out :  "  Who  is  going 
to  Yalta  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  I  said. 

"  That  is  very  well,"  said  he.  "  We  are  four  now  " 
— and  he  explained  that  we  would  have  to  drive  ninety 
versts  (over  sixty  miles)  by  road.  The  motor  cars  in 
which  one  can  book  a  seat  had  all  gone  off,  so  a  carriage 
with  horses  had  to  be  hired.  This  cost  a  hundred 
roubles,  but  if  four  people  arranged  to  travel  together, 
the  fare  was  only  twenty-five  roubles  each.  .  .  .  He 
pulled  me  along  with  him  to  a  ramshackle  landau  to 
which  three  scraggy  horses  were  yoked.  A  stout  lady 
and  a  very  pretty  young  Jewess  were  already  there. 
The  Tartar  driver  and  an  assistant  were  stacking  their 
luggage  at  the  back  of  the  vehicle.  We  four  had 
twenty  packages  with  us  (I  had  only  two)  and  some- 
how all  were  eventually  tied  to  the  carriage  and  we 
set  off. 

Ninety  versts  of  white,  dusty  road  and  beautiful 
mountain  and  valley  scenery.  Tobacco  fields  with  rows 
of  plucked  leaves  hanging  up  to  dry  in  the  sun ;  Indian 
corn  plantations ;  orchards  full  of  tempting  fruit,  and 
great  vineyards  on  the  hill  slopes;  dense  woods,  and 
in    the    valleys    odd    rows    of   cypress    trees.  ...  At 


THE  CAUCASUS—VIA  CRIMEA  47 

Alushta  we  changed  horses.  The  pretty  Jewess  left  us. 
I  was  disappointed.  .  .  .  Later  I  learned  that  Jews 
are  not  allowed  to  be  in  Yalta. 

To  Yalta  at  midnight.  We  drove  zig-zag  down  a 
mountain-side.  The  moon  shone  on  the  water,  making 
queer  shadows  there  so  that  the  sea  became  like  a 
cloudy  sky.  The  air  was  still  warm  and  the  dusty  road 
still  showed  very  white.  Crowds  of  people  were  walking 
along  the  sea  promenade,  but  the  sea-front  streets  were 
unlit.  That  was  the  war.  Other  Crimean  watering 
places  had  already  been  bombarded.  ...  It  was  such 
a  pity  that  the  Goeben  and  the  Breslau  were  still  at 
large.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  of  sunshine  when  one  lounged  upon  the 
promenade  and  watched  the  cosmopolitan  crowd  go  by. 
Russians  and  Poles  and  Armenians  and  Tartars  and 
Greeks.  ...  I  saw  French  and  English  folk  too.  .  .  . 
A  few  moon-lit  evenings  when  one  walked  in  a  large 
garden  and  listened  to  a  band.  ...  A  few  days  of 
fruit,  apples  and  pears  and  grapes  and  figs,  all  growing 
at  one's  door  ;  red  wine,  too — the  Crimea's  own  (there 
was  no  prohibition  of  wine  in  Yalta)  and  home-grown 
cigarette  tobacco.  .  .  .  And  I  set  off  again  to  Simfero- 
pol on  my  way  to  Tifiis.  I  had  two  young  ladies  as  my 
companions  on  the  journey  over  the  mountains  to 
Simferopol.  We  were  fifteen  hours  on  the  way  but  the 
drive  was  very  pleasant.  My  companions  had  been  art 
students  in  Paris  until  the  war  began.  They  spoke 
French  and  English  perfectly.  We  talked  of  war  and 
art,  and  of  the  lovely  land  in  which  we  were.  And  then 
the  lady  with  the  dark  blue  eyes  referred  to  Russian 
words  and  names. 

"  They  are  very  pretty,"  said  she. 

"  Very,"  I  said. 

"  What  name  do  you  like  best  ?  What  lady's  name  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Kera,"  said  I,  at  once. 

*'  Why  '  Kera  '  ?  " 

*'  The  name  of  a  heroine  of  whom  I  wrote.  ...  I 
write  little  stories,"  I  added,  as  one  would  apologise. 

She  questioned  me  about  my  work.  Then,  "It  is 
very  interesting,"  said  she.     "  I  am  Kera  too  !  " 


48        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  I  said. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  always  want  to  think  of  Kera  as  a  pretty 
woman.  My  heroine  was  lovely,  but  in  my  story  I  did 
not  write  her  real  name,  I  altered  it  to  '  Kera.'  ...  If 
you  had  been  a  very  dreadful  looking  person  and  I  had 
heard  you  referred  to  as  '  Kera,'  it  would  have  spoiled 
everything  for  me." 

She  really  blushed. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  the  names  of  Russian  men. 
Ivan,  I  know,  and  Vladimir  and  Alexei  and  Nicolai  and 
Constantine  and  Boris  and  Vassilei  and  Dmitrie.  .  .  . 
Tell  me  some  other  names — nice  names." 

"  '  Vadim,'  "  said  Madame  Kera.  "  It  is  the  prettiest 
name  that  I  know  for  a  man." 

"  Do  you  know  anyone  with  that  name  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  she.  "  I  really  know  no  one  with  that 
name.  I  only  know  that  such  a  name  exists.  It  is 
very  nice — '  Vad-eem.'  " 

I  will  continue  this  story  of  coincidence  now.  .  .  .  At 
Sinelnikov,  where  I  left  the  ladies  next  day,  I  had  to  rush 
to  catch  another  train  for  Rostov.  I  boarded  it  in  a 
hurry,  as  it  went  slowly  off,  and  I  almost  knocked  down 
a  nice-looking  young  man  who  was  standing  at  the 
carriage  door.  A  few  minutes  later  I  found  that  he  and 
I  were  sharing  the  same  coupe.  Again  we  talked  of  war 
and  scenery  and  Russia — and  what  I  thought  of  all 
these.  Finally  we  found  that  we  were  "  literary 
brothers,"  as  he  put  it.  He  was  Vadim  Baiyan,  a  young 
Russian  poet  with  a  rising  reputation,  whose  book, 
"  Fleurs  d' Orange,"  had  only  recently  been  published. 
I  told  him  of  Kera  and  of  our  chat  about  Russian  names. 

"  You  are  going  to  the  Caucasus,"  said  he,  "  so  I  will 
tell  you  some  Caucasian  names.  '  Nina '  is  a  very 
frequent  one :  so  is  '  Tamara.'  .  .  .  And  a  typical 
Caucasian  name  for  a  man  is  '  Tigran.'  " 

When  I  left  my  poet  companion  at  Rostov,  I  travelled 
in  the  same  coupe  as  two  naval  officers  and  a  lady — an 
officer's  wife.  She  had  the  dark  eyes  and  hair  of  the 
south.  Her  Russian  name  was  Nina  Tigranovna — 
Nina,  the  daughter  of  Tigran.  .  .  .  Again  I  thought  of 
the  coincidence  of  names — Kera  and  Vadim,  and  now 
here  were  Nina  and  Tigran.     During  the  night  another 


THE  CAUCASUS—VIA  CRIMEA  49 

lady  entered  our  compartment.  I  saw  her  in  the  morn- 
ing when  I  awoke.  She  also  was  Caucasian.  I  was 
presented  as  an  Englishman. 

"  And  you,"  said  I,  "  are  '  Tamara.'     Yes  ?  " 

•"  Yes,"  said  she.     "  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

*'  Magic,"  I  said.     "  It  is  very  easy." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  cannot  explain,"  I  said.  "It  is  easy.  That  is 
all.  ...  I  knew  at  once." 

She  laughed.  "  You  English  !  "  said  she.  And  I  do 
not  even  now  know  what  she  thought.  .  .  . 

I  may  also  add  that  I  never  met  a  Nina  in  the  Caucasus 
or  a  Tamara,  or  a  Mr.  Tigran  :  and  I  never  met  another 
Vadim,  nor  heard  of  one  :  and — alas  ! — I  never  met 
another  Kera  such  as  I  had  known.  ... 

The  two  naval  officers  in  the  train  from  Rostov  were 
men  who  had  been  called  to  the  navy  for  the  duration  of 
the  war.  They  talked  very  much  to  me  about  the 
superiority  of  their  own  ships  and  crews  to  those  of 
other  nations.  They  told  me  that  it  was  not  agreeable 
to  them  to  say  so — but,  candidly,  the  British  Navy  was 
disappointing. 
.  "  Yes  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Now,  our  gunners,"  said  they — and  told  me  much 
about  the  excellent  marksmanship  of  the  gunners  on 
their  special  ship. 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  said  again. 

They  deplored  the  fact  that  they  could  not  have  a 
sea-fight  with  the  German  ships. 

"  There  are  always  the  Goehen  and  the  Breslau,'"  said 
I,  using  the  word  "  always  "  somewhat  nastily. 

They  looked  a  little  stupidly  at  me.  Then  they 
commenced  to  discuss  how  submarines  should  be  dealt 
with.  But  to  all  my  remarks  about  the  Black  Sea  they 
answered  not.  Next  day  I  found  that  they  were  not 
going  to  Tiflis  and  Batoum  as  I  had  thought.  ...  I 
heard  the  word  "  Baku."  .  .  . 

"  My  God  !  "  said  I  in  Russian,  "  don't  tell  me  your 
ship  is  in  the  Caspian  Sea  !  " 

It  was  !  .  .  . 

Meadows   of  long  grass  ;    sluggish  pools   of  water  ; 

E 


50        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

woods  by  the  railway  side — and  magpies  in  the  trees. 
Wayside  stations  where  sportsmen  with  dogs  and  guns 
and  big  bags  of  hares  joined  the  train,  and  where  the 
soldiers  left  the  wagons  to  strip  the  cottage  gardens  of 
their  ripe  tomatoes — without  a  thought  of  payment. 
At  these  little  stations,  too,  we  bought  large  water- 
melons at  a  penny  each  from  dark-skinned  children. 
The  floor  of  the  coupes  and  the  corridors  of  the  train 
were  splashed  with  juice  and  littered  with  seed  and  rind. 
.  .  .  And  then  the  meadows  were  left  behind  and  we 
passed  through  a  grey,  barren  land.  The  plains  and  the 
nearer  mountains  seemed  to  be  of  plaster,  so  dry  and 
grey  and  cracked  they  were.  Hawks  and  eagles  circled 
in  the  air.  Camel  caravans  were  making  for  the  moun- 
tain range.  The  distant  peaks  were  capped  with  snow. 
They  looked  like  clouds.  Upon  our  left  the  Caspian 
Sea,  shining  in  the  sun  or  dull  behind  a  haze  of  heat.  .  .  . 
Then  the  oil  fields  towards  Baku,  bleak  and  ugly  with 
clumsy  wooden  pumping  stations  dotted  on  the  hillside. 
We  changed  at  Baladzhari  into  a  very  crowded  train. 
The  first-class  carriages  were  occupied  by  Persian  mer- 
chants in  semi-European  dress.  They  looked  like  stage 
brigands.  Some  of  them  wore  lounge  suits,  but  had 
neither  collars  nor  ties  nor  scarves.  Dreadful  looking 
folk — possibly  very  rich.  .  .  .  Flocks  of  sheep  and 
goats  with  Joseph's  coated  shepherds  guarding  them. 
Water  buffaloes  yoked  to  spokeless  wooden  wheeled  carts. 
Thin  horses  and  "  moth-eaten  "  donkeys.  .  .  .  Turkish 
prisoners  making  new  roads  and  sidings.  They  worked 
lazily,  with  many  stops.  It  was  very  hot.  And  always 
in  the  distance  on  our  right  the  white  peaks.  .  .  .  And 
so  to  Tiflis,  next  morning  at  eleven. 

Tiflis  in  August  with  a  burning  sun  ;  white  dusty 
streets — indeed  a  whiteness  and  a  dustiness  covered  the 
whole  town  ;  and  grey  bare  hills  on  all  sides.  (The 
snowy  peaks  could  still  be  seen  towards  the  north.) 
Tiflis  lies  in  a  deep  valley,  a  shallow,  muddy  river  run- 
ning at  the  bottom  and  houses  built  upon  the  steep 
sides.  The  railway  station  stands  high  upon  the 
northern  side.  From  it  one  looks  down  upon  the  town 
...  A  long  wait  upon  the  station  steps  before  a  cab 
could  be  obtained,   then  a  two-hours'  drive  in  search 


THE  CAUCASUS— VIA  CRIMEA  51 

of  a  hotel.  The  Orient  was  full :  so  was  the  Palace. 
The  fine  new  Hotel  Majestic  was  a  lazaret.  (This  hotel 
had  not  been  opened  to  the  public  ;  it  was  still  in- 
complete, but  it  made  an  excellent  hospital.)  The 
H6tel  de  Londres  was  an  army  building.  ...  At  last 
I  got  a  room  in  a  "  War  "  hotel.  These  hotels  are  com- 
mandeered for  the  reception  of  officers  only,  although 
civilian  guests  still  manage  to  get  admittance.  .  .  .  The 
only  advantage  to  officers  seems  to  be  that  the  pro- 
prietors must  not  charge  too  much.  Any  disputes  over 
high  fees  are  settled  by  the  Military  Commandant  of  the 
town,  to  whom  the  officers  can  complain.  This  certainly 
is  an  advantage.  With  a  great  demand  for  rooms  and 
only  one  or  two  to  be  had,  non-"  War  "  hotels  asked 
most  excessive  prices  for  rooms — and  got  them.  In  a 
"  War  "  hotel,  the  proprietor  is  compelled  to  give  an 
officer  a  room  if  he  has  one  vacant.  If  the  officer  thinks 
the  cost  is  too  high,  he  can  place  the  matter  in  the  hands 
of  the  town  commander,  who  will  consider  the  case,  and, 
if  necessary,  fix  the  price  himself.  This  applies  to  meals 
also. 

I  got  a  very  dirty  bare  room  that  overlooked  an 
untidy  courtyard.  Opposite  my  window  was  a  tenement 
building  with  a  verandah  on  each  floor.  It  looked  like 
a  great  dolls'  house.  The  inhabitants  lived  practically 
all  the  time  on  the  open  balconies — chiefly  in  deshabille. 
.  .  .  An  old  beggar  woman  shuffled  into  the  yard  as  I 
was  leaning  out  of  my  window  to  get  what  fresh  air  I 
could.  She  played  a  broken-toothed  organ  for  half 
an  hour.  Only  one  tune — that  came  like  a  memory 
from  the  past.  ..."  Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes."  .  .  . 
But,  somehow,  quite  appropriate.  Tiflis  had  many 
lovely  black-eyed  women — Russians  and  Georgians  and 
Armenians.  ...  • 

Wounded  soldiers  walking  in  the  streets  and  resting  in 
the  public  gardens.  Staff  Officers  (the  Grand  Duke's 
headquarters  were  in  Tiflis)  in  motor-cars.  Army  carts 
and  companies  on  foot  and  Caucasian  cavalry  passing 
through  the  town.  And — an  officer  of  the  Black  Watch 
wearing  his  kilt  and  sporran  and  Glengarry  and  spats 
at  noon  in  the  chief  thoroughfare  to  the  wonder  of  the 
Tiflis  crowd.  This  officer  was  aide  to  the  British  Military 
Attache.     I  met  him  in  the  Orient  Hotel  later.     I  told 

E  2 


52        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

him  he  was  indeed  a  brave  man  to  go  out  in  a  kilt.  He 
admitted  that  the  crowd  was  curious  and  apt  to  become 
embarrassing.     Then  he  said  : 

"  I  don't  mind  being  taken  for  a  Serbian,  or  a  Belgian, 
or  even  an  Austrian,  as  I  have  heard  folk  whisper,  but 
the  limit  was  reached  this  morning  when  I  heard  one 
voice  say,  '  Oh  !   I  know — Futurist ! '  " 

And  in  the  streets  of  Tiflis,  in  the  crowded,  noisy- 
bazaar,  I  saw  a  sturdy  British  soldier — khaki  and 
puttees  and  clean  black  boots.  I  spoke  to  him  and  we 
went  to  a  cafe  together  for  tea.  I  had  received  at  the 
Tiflis  post  office  some  letters  from  home  and  some  num- 
bers of  the  Sphere.  I  had  these  with  me  as  I  had  not 
returned  to  my  hotel.  Together  we  looked  at  the 
pictures.  The  soldier  ran  his  fingers  over  the  pages 
approvingly  and  stroked  the  glossy  paper  almost  with 
affection. 

"  By  God  !  "  he  declared,  "  I  don't  know  how  you 
feel,  sir,  but  this  paper  makes  me  proud  to  be  an  English- 
man. None  of  your  cheap  soft  thin  paper  about  this. 
.  .  .  High  class,  I  call  it.  .  .  .  British,  this  is.  British 
and  Best.     How's  that,  sir  ?  " 

And,  really,  there  was  something  in  what  he  said,  but 
I  had  only  realised  that  dimly  before.  .  .  .  The  quality 
of  the  paper,  the  quality  of  the  text,  the  quality  of  the 
clean  advertisements.  .  .  . 

I  left  Tiflis  next  night  for  Kars,  where  the  British 
armoured  car  men  were  stationed.  I  had  to  wait  some 
time  in  the  crowded  buffet  room  before  the  train  was 
ready.  And  suddenly  I  saw  the  British  soldier  again. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  looked  upon 
and  criticised  by  everyone  in  it.  He  saw  me  and  came 
and  sat  beside  me. 

"  What  will  you  have  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  .  .  .  Mine's  a  Bass,"  said  he. 

I  ordered  a  glass  of  tea. 

"  Will  you  have  another  ?  "  I  invited  later. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  ...  A  Guinness  this  time,"  he 
answered  solemnly. 

I  ordered  a  glass  of  black  coffee. 

Finally  I  left  him  on  the  crowded  platform.  He  had 
stayed  to  see  me  off.     He  also  asked  very  gravely  if  he 


THE  CAUCASUS— VIA  CRIMEA  58 

could  get  me  a  Star  or  News  or  if  I  would  prefer  Tit-Bits 
or  Answers.  .  .  .  The  scene  at  the  train's  departure  was 
pandemonium.  Many  old  peasants  with  much  baggage 
had  been  unable  to  get  on  the  overcrowded  train.  One 
of  them  cried  plaintively  that  he  had  been  three  nights 
in  the  station  trying  to  get  away  to  his  home,  but  he  had 
not  been  able  to  fight  his  way  on  board.  .  .  . 

I  reached  Kars  next  day  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  drove  to  the  British  billets.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BRITISH   ARMOURED    CARS 

The  British  R.N.A.S.  Armoured  Cars,  under  Com- 
mander Oliver  Locker-Lampson,  M.P.,  were  the  first 
British  Expeditionary  Force  to  fight  alongside  of  the 
Russians.  No  other  company  of  officers  and  men  has 
suffered  such  terrible  hardships  on  the  way  to  war  as 
they  did.  They  left  Liverpool  for  Russia  in  the  first 
week  of  December,  1915,  and,  through  no  fault  of  their 
own,  it  was  nine  months  later  before  they  finally  got 
in  touch  with  the  enemy.  "  Nine  months  !  "  one  says. 
.  .  .  The  comment  is  that  another  force  would  never 
have  got  there  at  all  ! 

There  was  the  voyage  on  the  wintry  sea.  Two  days 
out  from  Liverpool  such  a  gale  raged  for  three  days  that 
the  ship  only  made  fifty  miles — seventeen  miles  a  day. 
There  was  the  defective  heating  apparatus  that  flooded 
the  cabins  and  lower  decks  with  steam  which  saturated 
the  bedding,  and  had  eventually  to  be  cut  off.  There 
were  men  at  sea  for  the  first  time  who  became  so  ill 
that  they  were  unconscious  for  hours.  There  were  cases 
of  influenza  and  pneumonia  and  frost-bite.  There  were 
waves  that  splashed  their  water  into  the  lower  decks 
and  snow  that  was  taken  there  on  the  men's  feet  from 
the  upper  deck  so  that  the  floors  were  deep  in  slush — 
and  there  were  the  unaccustomed  hammocks  that  threw 
their  occupants  and  bedding  into  the  icy  mess.  There 
were  the  days  of  darkness  when  there  were  only  two  hours 
of  half  daylight  in  each.  There  were  twenty  degrees  of 
frost — then  twenty-five — then  the  thermometer  fell 
to  one  below  zero.  There  were  frozen  pumps — and 
there  was   a   scarcity   of  drinking   water.     And   there 

54 


THE  BRITISH  ARMOURED  CARS  55 

was  the  frozen  white  sea  that  cut  off  further  progress 
for  some  months. 

The  force  landed  at  Alexandrovsk  in  the  first  fortnight 
of  January,  and  was  forced  to  remain  there  until  May. 
But  they  did  not  remain  idle.  Each  day  there  were 
drills,  and  rifle  and  machine-gun  practice.  There 
were  ships  in  the  harbour  that  would  not  have  been 
unloaded  had  the  British  men  not  been  there.  There 
were  Austrian  and  German  prisoners  of  war  at  work 
on  the  new  railway  to  Petrograd  ;  two  parties  of  R.N.  A.S. 
men — ten  in  each — were  detached  to  mount  guard  over 
the  enemy  men.  And  there  was  always  the  severe 
climate  to  be  faced.  The  temperature  ranged  from 
twelve  degrees  below  zero  to  twenty-eight  above — the 
average  was  twelve  degrees  Fahrenheit.  It  was  im- 
possible to  remain  long  in  the  open  air,  so  that  the  men 
who  carried  out  machine-gun  practice  had  to  have 
special  wooden  huts  built  for  them  and  their  guns. 
And  there  was  frost-bite — fingers  and  toes,  and  noses 
and  ears  ;  and  there  were  forty  cases  of  influenza  in  the 
first  three  months. 

But  in  spite  of  all  this — and  this  was  Russia  to  many 
of  the  men — some  of  them  said  that  they  would  rather 
remain  in  Russia  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  than  undergo 
another  such  sea  voyage  as  they  had  had.  That  tells 
of  the  terrible  crossing  more  than  any  words  of  mine 
can. 

In  May  the  frozen  seas  were  thawed  and  the  force 
left  for  Archangel.  Thence  to  Moscow,  where  a  great 
reception  was  given  the  men.  By  train  to  Vladikavkaz, 
in  the  Caucasus,  thence  to  the  Turkish  Front  by  road — 
and  now,  as  one  officer  said  to  me,  the  real  troubles 
began.  .  .  . 

From  Vladikavkaz  to  Tiflis,  along  the  Georgian  road, 
the  distance  is  about  130  miles,  and  from  Tiflis  to  Kars 
the  road  winds  along  narrow  rocky  shelves  of  land 
beside  a  river-side  and  over  a  high  mountain  range  on 
to  a  treeless,  burnt-up  plain  for  132  miles.  The  diffi- 
culties were  very  great,  but  the  force  left  Vladikavkaz 
on  July  28  and  reached  Kars  on  July  31  intact, 
without  having  had  a  -single  mechanical  breakdown. 
In    his    official    report,    Commander    Locker-Lampson 


56       ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

wrote  :  *'  Transit  along  a  windy,  precipitous  and  ill- 
kept  road,  which  is  the  only  avenue  of  supply  for  a 
great  army,  cannot  be  speedy  ;  and  becomes  necessarily 
sluggish  when  the  means  of  this  supply  consists  of 
ancient  carts,  slow-moving  camels  and  dromedaries, 
mule  teams,  ox  wagons  with  circular  spokeless  wheels, 
and  caravans  extending  often  for  hundreds  of  yards 
and  controlled,  not  as  a  rule  by  soldiery,  but  by  low- 
class  teamsters  whose  language  even  was  unknown  to 
the  average  Russian.  It  was  sometimes  by  a  rather 
arbitrary  interpretation  of  road  rights  that  the  cars  got 
piloted  along. 

"  The  road  surface  proved  the  greatest  obstacle, 
and  at  one  spot  rocks  tore  holes  in  the  base  plates  of 
four  cars.  This  damage,  however,  seccotine,  soap  and 
medical  plaster  managed  to  overcome  in  half  an  hour. 
In  fact  so  successfully  did  the  squadrons  travel  that 
Ekaterinopol  was  reached  before  the  oxen  destined  for 
their  mid-day  meal  had  been  killed."  The  force  reached 
Kars  eighteen  hours  before  the  allotted  time.  But  here 
they  were  met  by  disappointment.  In  conjunction 
with  the  British  cars  a  Russian  attack  on  the  Turkish 
positions  before  Erzeroum  had  been  planned  for  mid- 
August,  but  a  surprise  attack  by  the  Turks  near  Trebi- 
zond  in  July  had  forced  the  Russians  into  an  earlier 
offensive  on  the  Erzeroum  Front  by  way  of  diversion. 
This  met  with  great  success.  Erzingjan  and  Mamal- 
katoun  were  captured,  the  whole  of  the  road  on  which 
the  British  cars  had  hoped  to  operate  fell  into  Russian 
hands,  and  so  successful  was  the  Russian  advance, 
that  the  army  was  in  danger  of  out-running  its  means 
of  supply.  The  offensive  ceased  and  the  British  cars' 
opportunities  of  action  on  this  part  of  the  front  were 
gone  for  some  months. 

The  force  proceeded  to  Sarakamish,  forty  miles  from 
Kars,  and  there  the  Grand  Duke,  Nicolai  Nicolaievitch, 
then  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Russian  Armies  on  the 
Caucasus,  inspected  it.  At  his  request  one  squadron 
was  sent  to  North  Persia  and  two  squadrons  were 
ordered  to  go  to  the  Mush-Bitlis  Front,  on  which  the 
Russians  had  recently  suffered  a  reverse.  This  part  of 
the  Russian  lines  lay  several  hundred  versts  off  the  main 
artery  of  supply — the  Erzeroum  road.     The  shortage 


3   »9  i 


THE  BRITISH  ARMOURED  CARS  57 

of  all  supplies  and  transport  and  the  absence  of  railways 
made  it  impossible  for  the  Russians  to  feed,  munition 
or  transport  the  British  men,  but  Commander  Locker- 
Lampson  undertook  to  carry  out  all  these  obligations 
himself.  At  Keupri  Keui  Bridge,  102  miles  from  the 
rail-head,  an  advanced  base  was  established.  From 
here  Commander  Locker-Lampson  proceeded  another 
sixty-four  miles  to  Khinis. 

Commander  Gregory,  R.N.,  in  the  meanwhile  had 
travelled  over  two  thousand  miles  to  inspect  the  roads, 
suffering  very  much  from  exposure  to  the  rapid-changing 
climate  (tropic  heat  in  the  plains  to  arctic  cold  on  the 
mountains)  and  from  shortage  of  food.  At  Khinis 
Commander  Locker-Lampson  learnt  that  the  road  to 
the  Front  by  way  of  Charborg  had  been  inspected  by 
Commander  Gregory  and  found  impassable  for  the  cars. 
There  was  another  road,  but  it  also  proved  hopeless  ; 
all  the  temporary  wooden  bridges  had  been  torn  down 
by  Russian  soldiers  for  firewood  in  the  absence  of  other 
fuel  !  ....  A  third  road,  "  a  long  way  round,"  existed 
via  Lire.  The  Russian  Staff  ordered  one  of  the  British 
squadrons  to  try  this.  But  the  difficulties  were  hopeless. 
At  one  river  that  had  to  be  crossed,  the  cars  were  im- 
mersed for  two  days,  and  finally  the  Staff  ordered  the 
squadron  to  cease  its  heroic  efforts  to  get  to  the  position 
along  this  route. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  The  impassable 
road  via  Charborg  had  to  be  passed  somehow.  The 
Russian  Staff  made  arrangements  for  the  hurried  bridg- 
ing of  rivers  and  streams,  so  that  finally  a  few  of  the 
cars  from  the  British  Third  Squadron  managed  to  reach 
Charborg.  Base  plates  had  been  ripped  from  the  cars, 
torque  rods  twisted,  axles  bent,  and  gears  seized.  Two 
of  the  cars  had  to  be  lowered  down  steep  slopes  before 
they  could  struggle  through.  On  August  24  Squadron  3 
left  Charborg  for  Mush,  a  distance  of  thirty  miles. 
There,  at  night,  Commander  Locker-Lampson  joined 
them  and  led  them  slowly  in  total  darkness  across  the 
plain  to  a  spot  two  miles  from  the  Mush-Bitlis  road. 
After  an  hour's  rest.  Commander  Locker-Lampson 
went  on  foot  ahead  of  the  cars  to  show  them  the  way. 
It  was  imperative  that  the  cars  crossed  the  plain  before 
daylight  in  order  to  avoid  being  seen  by  the  enemy, 


58      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

who  held  positions  in  the  mountains.  There  was  a 
further  disappointment.  The  Russian  Staff,  ignorant 
of  the  road,  had  sent  the  British  cars  many  miles  out  of 
their  way,  so  that  when  daylight  came  it  was  found 
that  over  fifty  miles  would  still  have  to  be  covered 
before  the  cars  could  get  in  touch  with  the  advanced 
Turkish  positions  which  lay  twenty  miles  short  of 
Bitlis. 

Commander  Locker-Lampson  has  told  me  of  this 
journey  : — 

"  We  were  particularly  warned  against  the  Kurds, 
whose  villages  dot  the  plains  and  hills  here,  and  who  had 
been  recently  armed  and  organised  into  battalions  by  the 
Turks.  We  were  urged  to  allow  no  man  to  fall  alive 
into  their  hands,  as  their  cruelty  was  nameless,  and  a 
merciless  vendetta  existed  between  tlaem  and  the 
Cossacks.  Prisoners  are  not  taken  on  either  side,  and 
only  a  week  previously  two  Cossacks  who  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  Kurds  escaped  torture  by  a  miracle. 
We  decided  to  keep  the  cars  together. 

"  After  a  few  miles  the  so-called  '  Chaussee  road  ' 
indicated  on  the  Russian  map  failed,  broke  up,  and 
indeed,  disappeared.  We  were  left  to  follow  a  hard 
track  over  the  plain  which  was  continually  interrupted 
by  streams,  deep  fissures  in  the  earth  and  even  swamps. 
Difficulties  grew,  as  wood  was  very  scarce  for  bridging 
purposes,  while  the  soil,  burned  to  the  consistency  of 
brick,  resisted  everything  but  a  full-sized  pick.  I  tried 
to  hurry  on  ahead  in  my  touring  car  but  got  held  up  by 
a  stream  which  we  spanned  with  great  difficulty  with 
logs  hauled  from  a  neighbouring  village.  Across  this 
temporary  rampart  every  car  rattled  successfully  except 
a  heavy  transport  wagon  which  got  bogged.  It  was 
only  by  setting  two  sotnias  (sotnia  =  a  hundred)  of 
Cossacks  to  pull  for  four  hours  on  this  car  that  we 
managed  to  make  the  village  of  Haskoi — midway  on 
our  journey — by  noon.  Another  stream  had  to  be 
crossed  here.  We  raised  the  bottom  with  stones — which 
ripped  a  hole  in  the  base  plate  of  one  of  the  armoured 
cars.  By  melting  down  some  revolver  bullets  and 
pouring  the  fluid  lead  in  over  a  casting  of  mud,  the 
officer  in  charge  managed  to  plug  the  leak  and  resume 
work.  .  .  .  The  village  of  Haskoi  was  quite  deserted. 


THE  BRITISH  ARMOURED  CARS  59 

Every  inhabitant,  being  Christian,  had  been  murdered 
a  year  previously  by  the  Turks. 

"  The  difficulties  before  us  outdid  any  hitherto. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  road  out  of  the  village  to  Marnik, 
our  immediate  destination,  and  the  journey  resolved 
itself  into  a  blind  pilgrimage  over  the  plain.  River 
beds,  dry  and  hard,  barred  our  path,  as  well  as  endless 
streams  filled  with  rotting  carcases  of  oxen  and  horses  : 
and  the  more  successful  we  were  in  crossing,  the  more 
anxious  we  became  as  to  our  chance  of  getting  back. 
We  reached  a  stream  which  only  extensive  preparation 
managed  to  bridge,  and  here,  after  getting  all  the 
armoured  cars  and  my  touring  car  over,  another  heavy 
transport  wagon  foundered,  destroyed  the  temporary 
supports,  prevented  a  couple  of  Russian  cars  from 
crossing  (they  had  caught  us  up  by  making  use  of  our 
temporary  bridges)  and  made  even  retreat  difficult. 
The  Russian  officer  and  the  interpreter  said  that  the 
Staff  could  not,  under  the  circumstances,  wish  us  to 
proceed  and  begged  us  to  go  no  further.  But  the  rumour 
of  a  Turkish  battalion,  gone  astray  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  plain  and  asking  to  be  cut  off  if  only  we  could  get 
up  in  time,  decided  us."  .  .  . 

Finally,  Commander  Locker-Lampson,  finding  it 
increasingly  difficult  to  keep  the  cars  together,  gave 
orders  to  them  to  follow  as  best  they  could,  and  hastened 
on  ahead  in  his  touring  car  with  a  Cossack  whose  horse 
had  been  shot,  determined  to  reach  Marnik  alone  rather 
than  not  at  all.  Towards  the  evening,  after  having 
managed  to  get  over  a  difficult  river,  he  reached  a  point 
two  miles  from  the  village.  In  the  distance  he  saw  some 
horsemen.  The  Cossack,  who  had  run  ahead,  returned 
to  say  that  these  were  Turks,  and  that  the  touring  car 
had  fallen  into  a  trap.  It  was  impossible  to  retreat — 
but  luckily  the  Cossack  was  wrong,  so  that  Commander 
Locker-Lampson  reached  the  village  safely — to  be  met 
with  the  order  to  return  at  once  with  all  the  cars  as 
further  advance  was  absolutely  out  of  the  question. 
No  motor  car  had  ever  entered  this  plain  before,  and 
the  Russian  officer  in  command  declared  that  no  one 
had  ever  dreamt  that  the  British  cars  could  get  through. 

And  so  the  British  squadron,  which  had  fed  on  fish 
caught  by  the  Cossacks,  and  had  drunk  water  from  the 


60      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

radiators  of  their  cars  (all  the  streams  being  polluted) 
rather  than  turn  back,  which  had  come  over  eight 
hundred  versts  across  the  worst  possible  roads  and  road- 
less plains,  and  which  had  eventually  reached  a  point 
only  three  miles  behind  that  gained  by  their  commander 
— were  again  faced  with  a  bitter  disappointment. 

Commander  Locker-Lampson  then  set  out  for  Charborg 
again.  There  the  Staff  informed  him  that  conditions 
had  suddenly  become  more  favourable,  and  ordered  a 
return  to  Marnik  to  be  attempted.  He  set  off  at  once 
and  met  the  armoured  cars  half-way.  They  turned  and 
reached  Haskoi  again.  Here  another  message  awaited 
them — ordering  them  to  return  immediately  as  further 
advance  once  more  seemed  foolhardy.  This  was  too 
much  for  officers  and  men  alike.  Commander  Locker- 
Lampson  begged  to  be  allowed  to  take  full  responsibility 
and  to  proceed.  His  request  was  granted — with  reluc- 
tance— and  on  August  30,  in  the  afternoon,  the  force 
came  into  action  against  the  Turks,  who  were  advancing 
in  extended  order  across  the  plain  towards  Haskoi. 
The  maxim-guns  were  very  effective.  Not  only  were 
those  of  the  enemy  who  were  to  be  seen  brought  down, 
but  also  every  place  of  cover  was  carefully  searched  by 
bullets,  and  the  enemy  withdrew  for  another  effort. 
Then  the  three-pounder  gun  which  the  force  had  towed 
with  them  came  into  action.  The  enemy  had  so  far 
shown  no  signs  of  abandoning  the  attack,  but  the  un- 
expected use  of  high  explosives  (employed  by  the 
British  Squadron  for  the  first  time  in  three-pounder 
shells)  was  demoralising.  The  Turks  were  routed  ;  the 
skirmish  had  lasted  a  few  minutes  under  an  hour. 

On  September  1  the  force,  reduced  now  to  four 
armoured  cars,  two  motor  lorries  and  the  Commander's 
touring  car,  left  for  Marnik,  thence  to  Mozak,  the  extreme 
Russian  wing.  All  other  cars  had  failed  to  get  through, 
and  the  loss  of  transport  meant  a  serious  reduction  in 
food  and  a  more  serious  shortage  of  petrol.  Marnik 
was  reached  safely  by  three  of  the  armoured  cars  and 
one  of  the  lorries,  but  the  other,  with  the  three-pounder 
and  trailer  in  tow,  stuck  in  a  stream  and  had  to  be  left 
for  a  time.  Commander  Locker-Lampson  returned  later 
to  assist  in  getting  the  stranded  car  and  gun  out  of  the 
water.     One  armoured  car  had  been  left  to  guard  them. 


THE  BRITISH  ARMOURED  CARS  61 

After  some  hours  the  Commander  went  off  again  to 
catch  up  on  the  others.  The  track  proved  easy,  but 
when  rounding  a  foothill  beyond  which  the  road  reached 
the  slopes,  shots  suddenly  were  fired  and  then  volleys. 
The  Turks  had  sent  a  strong  force  to  assist  the  Kurds 
in  checking  the  British  cars,  and  this  stretch  had  been 
selected  for  an  ambush.  For  fifteen  minutes — over  a 
distance  of  three  or  four  miles — the  car — an  unarmoured 
Rolls-Royce  touring  car — had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of 
heavy  rifle  fire.  The  car  was  hit  several  times.  Com- 
mander Locker-Lampson  and  his  orderly  fired  on  the 
enemy,  and  the  orderly's  rifle  was  smashed  in  his  hand 
by  a  direct  hit.  The  armoured  cars  were  reached  safely. 
The  enemy  had  opened  fire  on  the  crew  of  the  unpro- 
tected lorry,  but  one  of  the  armoured  cars  had  gone  to 
the  rescue,  and  after  a  sharp  fight  of  twenty  minutes 
had  driven  off  the  Turks.  One  officer  and  two  men  of 
the  British  force  were  slightly  wounded. 

At  the  request  of  a  Cossack  officer,  one  of  whose  men 
had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Kurds,  a  British  armoured 
car  went  on  September  4  into  the  village  of  Shafkiss  to 
effect  a  rescue,  but  without  success.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  the  British  position  became  critical.  Thirteen 
large  transport  motor  lorries,  carrying  food,  oil  and 
petrol,  had  broken  down  on  the  appalling  roads.  The 
question  of  food  was  only  difficult  for  a  time.  Fish 
were  caught  by  the  Russians  in  the  rivers.  Kurdish 
cattle  were  also  obtained.  But — petrol.  There  was 
none  to  be  had  on  the  whole  of  this  front.  The  fruitless 
journeyings  of  the  force  at  the  orders  of  the  Russian 
Staff — to  Marnik  and  back,  and  to  Marnik  again — had 
exhausted  the  supply  that  each  car  carried.  Also  so 
difficult  were  the  gradients,  and  so  frequent  were  the 
corners  that  had  to  be  rounded  on  low  gear,  that  it  was 
found  that  transport  wagons  consumed  sixty  per  cent, 
of  the  petrol  they  carried  before  they  reached  the 
armoured  cars.  There  was  not  enough  petrol  to  take  a 
car  to  Haskoi,  but  one  officer  rode  there  and  back  on 
horseback,  a  distance  of  eighty  versts  in  all,  to  urge  the 
speedy  delivery  of  petrol.  The  answer  came  that  the 
next  consignment  could  not  be  expected  for  three  days. 

And  with  this  news  came  a  Staff  message  telling  the 
British  force  to  expect  an  attack  by  the  Turks  the  follow- 


62      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

ing  night.  The  Staff  were  doubtful  about  their  abihty 
to  check  the  enemy.  Here  was  a  dilemma.  The  British 
cars  had  practically  no  petrol.  They  could  not  move. 
And  the  officers,  rather  than  confess  this  trouble,  said 
nothing  about  it !  All  the  petrol  that  remained  was 
taken  from  the  cars  and  put  into  one  of  the  armoured 
cars,  which  went  out  reconnoitring  on  the  plain — and 
bluffed  the  Turks,  who  thought  that  all  the  British  cars 
were  ready  for  the  attack.  That  night  the  force  stood 
at  arms  from  half  an  hour  before  daybreak  to  half  an 
hour  after,  determined,  if  no  petrol  arrived,  to  abandon 
the  unarmoured  cars  and  to  fight  with  the  armoured 
ones,  though  stationary,  for  as  long  as  possible. 

Opposite  the  British  camp  across  the  plain  lay  a  low 
mountain  ridge  and  the  village  of  Norshen.  The  Rus- 
sians were  very  anxious  to  render  this  position  untenable. 
General  Nazabekov  placed  two  hundred  cavalry,  two 
companies  of  infantry  and  a  squadron  of  frontiersmen 
at  Commander  Locker-Lampson's  disposal,  and  on 
September  9  a  surprise  attack  was  carried  out.  The 
armoured  cars  under  Lieutenant  Sholl  reached  the  village, 
took  it  and  destroyed  it  by  fire.  The  three-pounder  gun 
caused  much  havoc  in  the  ranks  of  the  retreating  enemy. 
This  gun  was  then  towed  some  four  hundred  yards  nearer 
and  fire  was  renewed — so  successfully  that  an  enemy 
magazine  was  exploded  and  a  reserve  battalion  of  Turks 
suffered  heavy  losses.  Many  prisoners  were  taken  in 
this  action,  which  lasted  an  hour  and  a  half. 

During  all  this  time  the  days  had  been  burning  hot — 
the  nights  cold.  The  weather  had  been  very  dry,  but 
in  September  rain  was  expected.  This  would  have  made 
the  journey  back  impossible,  so  the  force  was  ordered 
to  return  to  Kars  before  it  was  too  late.  They  reached 
that  town  successfully  and  took  up  their  abode  in  bar- 
racks there. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Cloud-like  above  the  grey-blue  distant  hills  one  sees 
the  peak  of  Ararat.  Conical,  snow-clad,  and  specked 
with  dots  of  black  that  must  be  giant  rocks,  the  mountain 
opens  out  and  out  towards  the  plain  beneath  until  its 
white  gives  way  to  pasture  land  of  green  and  then, 
12,000  feet  below  the  top,  to  desert  land  of  burnt-up 
yellow  grass.  The  base  of  Ararat  that  opens  on  the 
black,  volcanic,  ashy  plain  is  five-and-twenty  miles 
in  width.  But  all  that  plain  and  all  that  sandy 
base  and  all  that  pleasing  belt  of  fertile  soil  I  cannot 
see.  I  only  see  the  snowy,  cloud-like,  sugar-loafy 
peak. 

There  is  a  greyness  here.  The  hills  are  grey  ;  the 
plains,  the  rocks,  the  villages  that  huddle  close  against 
the  mountain-sides.  The  stony,  dried-up  beds  of  spring- 
time streams  lie  deep  between  steep  sandy  banks.  The 
curling  road  that  winds  its  way  along  the  plain  and 
through  the  passes  where  the  hills  curve  down,  is  car- 
peted in  dust  so  pale  that  it  is  almost  white.  Other 
colour  there  is  none,  unless  one  looks  towards  the  blue 
hills  further  off.  There  are  no  trees,  no  pleasing  greens. 
There  is  a  shallow  river  ;  its  muddy  waters  sometimes 
seem  quite  blue  when  cloudless  skies  are  mirrored  in  the 
wider  pools  ;  sometimes  it  gleams  like  burnished  steel : 
but  for  the  greater  part  it  has  the  gloom  of  the  dry  land 
in  which  it  runs. 

Evening  brings  sunsets  and  glorious  changing  lights. 
The  sky  is  golden,  copper,  red,  merging  to  turquoise 
in  the  east.     The  greyness  of  the  day-time  hills  gives 

68 


64        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

way  to  purple,  mauve,  maroon.  Then  come  the  yellow 
moon  and  countless  flickering  stars.  The  winds  are 
cool  and  fresh  and  sweet.  It  is  the  sable  foxes'  time  to 
play.     As  from  afar,  one  hears  the  jackals'  howl. 

''  And  the  ark  rested  ....  upon  the  mountains  of 
Ararat,"  saith  the  Bible.  ".  .  .  .  And  it  came  to  pass 
....  the  waters  were  dried  up  from  off  the  earth  : 
and  Noah  removed  the  covering  of  the  ark,  and 
looked,  and,  behold,  the  face  of  the  ground  was  dry. 
....  And  Noah  went  forth,  and  his  sons,  and  his  wife, 
and  his  sons'  wives  with  him.  .  .  .  And  the  Lord  said 
in  His  heart.  .  .  .  While  the  earth  remaineth,  seedtime 
and  harvest,  and  cold  and  heat,  and  summer  and  winter, 
and  day  and  night  shall  not  cease. 

"  And  God  blessed  Noah  and  his  sons  and  said  unto 
them.  .  .  .  Whoso  sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man  shall 
his  blood  be  shed." 


II 

There  is  something  Biblical  in  the  people  here,  in  the 
hills  and  plains,  in  the  villages  themselves.  They  are 
all  strangely  familiar  to  me.  I  seem  to  know  this  little 
town  ;  it  seems  that  I  have  been  in  that.  .  .  .  The  flat 
roofs,  with  stacks  of  straw  piled  up  on  top  ;  the  heaps  of 
dry  dung  fire-bricks  ;  the  twisting  rock- strewn  narrow 
streets.  The  people,  too  ....  I  seem  to  know  them 
all.  The  women  with  the  scarves  upon  their  heads  and 
veils  below  their  shining  eyes  ;  the  dark-haired  little  girls 
and  ragged  little  boys  ;  the  old  men  with  thin  shanks 
and  long  grey  beards  ;  the  younger  men  with  patchwork 
coats  of  many  colours  and  curious  leather  sandals. 
These  multi-coloured  garments  make  one  think  of 
Joseph's  coat.  Some  of  them  have  scarcely  a  six-inch 
square  of  the  original  material  left. 

The  workshops.  .  .  .  The  men  who  beat  quaint  pans 
from  copper  sheets  ;  another  man  who  is  a  silversmith  ; 
a  third  makes  baskets,  and  a  potter  moulds  his  jars. 
Some  women  work  with  brownish  camel  hair  and  weave 
crude  cloth  beside  their  cottage  doors  ;  some  pour  out 
corn  into  a  home-made  sieve  to  sift  out  all  the  chaff ; 
some  break  rock  salt  in  hollowed  stones  ;    others  make 


"ANNO  DOMINI  .  .  .  .'  65 

fire-bricks  just  as  children  work  with  mud.  And  I  know 
them  all.  .  .  . 

Geography  and  history  and  the  Bible  knowledge  of  a 
score  of  years  ago  are  mixed  up  in  my  mind.  Egypt  and 
Palestine  and  the  country  of  the  Medes  become  as  one. 
I  am  in  Bible-land.  The  scene  is  set.  The  characters 
parade  before  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  woman  walking  bare-foot  to  the  well. 
Upon  her  shoulder  is  an  earthen  jar.  She  holds  herself 
erect.  I  see  the  beauty  of  her  eyes,  her  hair,  the  soft 
curves  of  her  breasts.  She  fills  the  jar.  She  passes  and 
is  gone  ....  and  I  thus  see  Rebecca  in  the  flesh.  .  .  . 
A  tiny  donkey  trots  along  the  dusty  road.  The  bearded 
man  who  sits  astride  seems  very  much  too  large.  His 
long  legs  almost  reach  down  to  the  ground.  Jerusalem 
and  Jericho  are  many,  many  miles  away,  yet  I  seem  to 
think  his  journey  is  between  these  towns.  .  .  .  There  is 
a  fair-haired  boy  with  sunny  smiles  upon  his  cherub 
face.  At  first  it  seems  that  he  is  out  of  place,  and  then 
I  say,  "  Why  ....  Samuel !"....  A  string  of 
camels  walks  majestically  across  the  desert  plains.  I 
know  them,  too.  I  know  their  riders'  turbans,  their 
black  beards,  their  packages  of  merchandise.  They 
have  come  from  the  pages  of  the  Bible  stories  of  my 
youth.  There  is  a  leper,  too  :  and  there  are  cripples. 
Up  on  the  hills,  the  shepherds  tend  their  flocks  of  sheep. 


Ill 

There  is  a  group  of  dark-skinned  men  at  work  below 
a  hill-side  town.  They  are  making  a  new  road.  The 
ground  they  excavate  must  once  have  been  a  burial 
place.  Human  bones,  brown  with  age  and  clay,  lie  all 
around.  Some  skulls  are  on  the  surface.  One  man 
kicks  one  aside.  The  force  of  his  boot  splits  it  in  two. 
Another  man  picks  up  a  skull  and  throws  it  at  a  fellow- 
workman.  The  others  laugh.  The  men  are  Turkish 
prisoners  of  war.  They  wear  a  motley  garb.  I  see 
some  men  in  khaki,  with  British  puttees  on  their  legs 
and  British  caps  on  their  heads.  .  .  .  Two  Russian 
soldiers  sit  dozing  on  a  heap  of  stones  some  distance  off. 
Their   rifles   lie   upon   their   knees.     Their   heads  drop 


66        ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

lower.  Sleep  conquers  them.  The  Turks  work  lazily, 
and  then,  they,  too,  sit  down  to  rest.     It  is  very  hot. 

I  see  a  cloud  of  dust  along  the  road.  It  swirls  nearer 
— nearer  still.  And  then  a  big  grey  car  comes  slowly 
up.  The  engine  is  almost  silent ;  the  thick  tyres  run 
noiselessly  on  the  dust-carpeted  road.  There  is  some- 
thing uncanny  in  the  motor-car's  strength.  Its  sides 
are  made  of  thick  steel.  A  maxim-gun  protrudes  from 
the  turret.  Perched  on  the  outside  of  the  machine,  a 
British  officer  sits  easily. 

My  Bible-land  which  seemed  so  real  vanishes  as 
dreams  are  wont  to  do.  There  is  no  past :  no  future 
save  a  time  of  hope.     Anno  Domini  ....  1916. 

The  car  passes.  The  officer  sings  as  he  goes  by.  The 
words  come  to  me  in  gusts.  .  .  . 

"  I  want  to  go  over  the  sea. 
Where  the  big  guns  cannot  reach  me.  ..." 

Then,  very  heartily,  with  all  the  strength  of  his  young, 
fresh  voice  : 

"  Oh  ! — my — I  don't  want  to  die.  ... 

I — WANT — TO — GO — HOME  !  "     .... 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   A   BRITISH   MESS-ROOM 

When  I  was  in  Kars  I  read  a  war  story  in  an  English 
magazine.  The  descriptions  of  the  officers'  billets  and 
dug-outs  were  good.  So  were  the  descriptions  of  wrecked 
towns,  of  trenches  and  of  battle  noises  and  scenes.  The 
writer,  I  thought,  has  been  at  the  Front.  He  knows. 
But  when  I  came  to  the  dialogue  I  knew  that  the  story- 
was  entirely  imaginary  and  that  the  writer  had  probably 
got  his  "  colour  "  from  the  daily  newspapers  or  from  war 
books.  Because  the  language  used  by  the  young  officers 
mentioned  in  the  tale  was  so  altogether  different  from 
what  one  really  hears  in  billets  and  in  camps  and  trenches 
that  no  one  who  had  ever  lived  at  the  Front  could  possibly 
have  written  what  he  knew  to  be  utterly  false.  In  the 
story,  for  instance,  the  officers  all  spoke  "  gravely  "  to 
each  other.  They  all  had  serious  faces  with  occasional 
"  grim  smiles."  They  addressed  each  other  officially — 
"  Lieutenant  So-and-so,"  "  Captain  This-or-that."  .  .  . 
The  language  was  the  language  used  in  thrilling  one-act 
dramas.  ..."  Yes,  sir,  I  will  carry  the  papers,"  .... 
"  Good-bye — may  God  guard  you  "  .  .  .  .  Then, 
"  There  goes  a  brave  man,  gentlemen  ....  God  send 
that  he  may  be  in  time."  ....  And  so  forth. 

I  say  unhesitatingly  that  no  young  British  officer 
ever  talks  like  that  outside  of  fiction  and  the  drama. 
I  say  unhesitatingly  that  no  young  British  officer  ever 
says,  as  did  one  in  the  story,  "  Private  Brown,  will  you 
please  inflate  the  front  wheel  of  my  automobile  ?  " 
What  he  almost  certainly  would  say  is  "  Brown  "  or 
even  "  Brown,  old  man  " — "  give  that  off  wheel  some 
juice,"  or  "  Pump  her  up,  Brown  " — striking  the  de- 
flated tyre  with  his  cane. 

''  F  2 


68       ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

I  will  write  faithfully  some  of  the  remarks  of  the 
British  officers  with  whom  I  lived  at  Kars.  They  are 
typical — not  only  of  the  men  I  know,  but  of  the  average 
young  British  officer  who  hides  his  feelings  under  a 
cloak  of  jesting  remarks  and  slang  phrases.  .  .  . 

Church  Service  on  Sunday  morning.  The  men  formed 
three  sides  of  a  square  in  the  barrack  yard.  The  officers 
stood  in  a  line  against  some  transport  wagons  on  the 
fourth  side.  The  Russian  sentries  looked  on  inter- 
estedly. Some  men  leant  in  their  shirt-sleeves  from  the 
barrack  windows  and  looked  down  upon  the  scene. 
.  .  .  .  Some  joking  and  jesting  amongst  the  officers 
before  the  Commander  arrived.  ...  A  soldier  came  to 
us  and  gave  us  each  a  Moody  and  Sankey  hymn-book 
bound  in  red  cloth.  Some  of  the  officers  turned  the 
pages  over  curiously.  .  .  . 

"  What's  it  goin'  to  be  this  mornin'  ?  "  said  one. 
"  '  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,'  "  or  : 

"  '  When  peace  like  a  river  attendeth  my  way, 
When  sorrows  like  sea-billows  roll, 
Ta-rum-tum,  ta-rum-tum,  ta-rum-tum,  ta-ray, 
Ta-rum-tum,  ta-nim-tiun '  " 

"  I  hope  to  God  it's  '  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers  ' 
....  I'm  fed  up  with  this  bloody  hole  " — this  from  a 
junior  officer  who  later  on  disappeared  behind  a  motor 
wagon  and  rested  there,  smoking  cigarettes,  during  the 
service.  .  .  . 

The  Commander  arrived.  The  men  stood  at  atten- 
tion. They  looked  very  smart,  very  young,  somehow 
very  small.  The  Commander  walked  round  inspecting 
them,  then  he  took  his  place  in  front  of  the  line  of  officers. 
The  soldiers  stood  at  ease.  A  few  men  came  and  stood 
on  the  officers'  side  of  the  square,  forming  a  choir. 
The  adjutant  announced  a  hymn.  "  Onward,  Christian 
Soldiers."  A  soldier  sitting  on  a  stool  before  a  small 
piano  (standing  on  two  shell  boxes)  played  a  few  chords  ; 
a  second  soldier  played  a  few  bars  on  a  violin,  and  then 
the  men  sang  the  hymn  very  harmoniously,  although 
the  words  themselves  were  not  in  harmony  with  war  or 
with  our  life  in  Kars.  .  .  .  The  adjutant  read  an  abbre- 
viated service  from  the  Church  of  England  prayer-book. 
He  read  somewhat  nervously,  and  in  great  haste — to 


IN  A  BRITISH  MESS-ROOM  69 

get  it  over  as  quickly  as  he  could.  .  .  .  Another  hymn. 
....  Then  the  National  Anthem,  the  men  standing 
at  attention.  .  .  .  And  we  went  back  to  the  officers' 
mess-room  for  lunch. 

The  Commander's  table  discussed  "  land  battleships  "  ; 
the  other  table  was  more  flippant. 

"  What's  that  bird  with  the  black  head  ?  "  I  heard 
someone  ask. 

"  Eagle,"  said  another  with  his  mouth  full. 

*'  No — not  eagle.  .  .  .  You  know,  that  little  bird " 

"  Oh  !  cut  out  that  '  Swiss  Family  Robinson  '  busi- 
ness," came  the  voice  of  the  man  who  ate  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Neutrals,"  said  another  man.  "  No  such  happy 
times  for  us.  .  .  .  Everything  they  wanted  was  washed 
ashore  just  when  they  needed  it.  .  .  .  Fancy  rum  being 
washed  ashore  to  us " 

"  Oh,  give  over  !  .  .  .  .  You  know  damn- well  our 
outfit  would  swim  out  for  it." 

Someone  at  our  table  was  prophesying  land-submarines 
— submarines  that  could  come  up  out  of  the  sea,  run 
ashore  and  inland,  wreck  a  town  or  kill  a  thousand  men 
in  trenches,  and  run  back  into  the  sea  again  and  disappear. 
....("  Jules  Verne,  Armoured  Cars " — ^this  in  a 
disrespectful  whisper  from  Table  2.) 

"  Say  what  you  like,"  said  someone  at  the  other 
table,  "  whisky  and  soda's  a  damned  good  substitute 
for  rum." 

"  When  I  got  home  last  time  thev  raised  the  price  of 
whisky.  .  .  .  What  d'ye  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  they  saw  you  coming,  old  man.  ...  I  was  in 
Scotland  one  Sunday  and  I  couldn't  get  a  drink  for  love 
nor  money." 

They  appealed  to  me  at  this  point,  as  an  authority 
on  my  native  land. 

*'  Is  that  right  ?  "  one  man  cried,  turning  round  to 
speak  to  me.  "  Is  that  right  that  you  cannot  get  whisky 
in  Scotland  on  Sunday  for  love  nor  money  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  money,"  I  said.  "  Certainly 
not  for  love." 

"  Future  wars  will  be  wars — not  between  infantry  and 
infantry  and  artillery  and  artillery,  but  between  travel- 
ling fortresses."  .... 


70      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  I'd  like  to  be  in  London  to-night,"  said  another 
Table  2  man.  "  A  drink  or  two  at  the  Criterion.  .  .  . 
And  then  dinner  at  the  Troc.  .  .  .  And  a  bottle " 

"  Oh  !    shut  up  !  .  .  .  .  Have  some  pity  !  " 

"  Well,  damn  it  all,  it  was  you  who  started  it.  .  .  . 
You've  given  me  a  thirst."  .... 

Lunch  over,  one  man  offered  me  a  Gold  Flake  cigarette. 
He  had  only  one  left  in  his  case.  I  refused  it,  thinking 
it  was  his  last  (that  is  the  etiquette  of  smokers.  .  .  . 
Just  as  one  always  holds  the  lighted  match  to  the  other 
man  first). 

"  I've  any  amount  more,"  said  he.  "  Brought  ten 
thousand  of  'em  out  with  me  when  I  came  here.  .  .  . 
I  was  home  recently,  you  know.  Fetched  ten  thousand 
back." 

"  Ten  thousand  !  "  said  I.  "  How  about  duty  ? 
....  I  had  two  pounds  of  tobacco  sent  me  and  I  had 
to  pay  thirteen  roubles  duty.  At  first  they  asked  me 
for  thirty- three  roubles  !  .  .  .  .  That  worked  out  at 
one-and-six  an  ounce,  plus  what  my  friend  who  sent  me 
the  'baccy  paid  for  it  at  home." 

"  Easy,"  said  the  officer  in  answer  to  my  question. 
"  They  came  out  in  a  box  marked  '  Spare  Parts.'  " 

Another  man  came  into  the  mess-room.  "  I  want 
some  headings,"  said  he. 

"  '  Horrible  Murder  in  Soho  '  ;  '  Ten  Tram-car  Smash 
Victims  '  ;  '  Well-known  Actress  Divorced,'  "  answered 
the  man  who  had  given  me  a  "  spare  part  "  to  smoke, 
and  who  now  made  me  suspect  him  of  having  been  in 
Fleet  Street. 

"  Don't  be  so  damned  funny,"  said  the  other  severely. 
"  I  want  some  paper  with  headings  on  it." 

"  I'll  write  'em  down." 

"  Dry  up,  can't  you  ?  .  .  .  .  Anybody  got  any  official 
notepaper  ?".... 

"  Talking  about  official  notepaper,"  said  the  jester. 

"  We're  not,"  said  a  voice. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  jester.  "  I  was  stopped  once  by  a 
Russian  sentry  who  wanted  to  see  my  passport.  There 
was  an  officer  there,  too.  We  hadn't  a  single  passport 
amongst  us.  .  .  .  But  I  had  an  income-tax  letter — 
damned  cheek,  mind  you — telling  me  I  hadn't  paid. 
.  .  .  ,  Neither^I  had — have.  .  .  .  Got  no  income  now. 


IN  A  BRITISH  MESS-ROOM  71 

How  can  I  pay  tax  ?  .  .  .  .  Well,  I  fished  out  the  en- 
velope and  took  out  the  letter  and  opened  it  and  gave 
it  to  the  officer  to  read.  He  read  it  seriously  although 
he  didn't  understand  a  word  ;  folded  it  up  ;  gave  me  it ; 
shook  hands  and  saluted  and  went  off.  .  .  .  Pity  the 
Government  don't  advertise  more.  .  .  .  What  a  testi- 
monial !  '  Have  one  of  our  Income  Tax  complaints  ' — 
No,  that's  wrong.  We've  all  got  'em  as  it  is.  .  .  . 
'  Have  one  of  our  Income  Tax  letters.  Help  you  out 
of  difficulties  when  travellin'  abroad.  An  English 
Lieutenant  writes  from  Somewhere  East  of  Somewhere 
Else  ' — and  so  on.     Damn  good  idea." 

Then  we  both  went  to  our  rooms  to  read  and  smoke, 
and  then  to  sleep.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  There 
was  no  place  to  go  to — no  place  in  which  to  walk — only 
the  bleak,  burnt-up  dusty  fields  and  the  squalid  little 
town,  itself  at  sleep  in  the  hot  sun. 

In  the  evening,  when  we  were  at  supper,  the  con- 
versation was  equally  varied.  A  tall  officer  returned 
from  a  visit  to  the  Russian  Staff. 

"  Well,  you  fellows,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
this  ?  .  .  .  .  I've  arranged  for  potatoes  and  wood  and  a 
hospital  and  admittance  to  the  club.  And  all  it  cost 
me  " — impressively — "  was  a  cheap  Russian  cigarette." 

Another  officer  arrived.  He  was  wearing  one  of  the 
little  short  swords  that  Russian  aviators  and  naval  men 
wear.  ..."  Why  are  you  wearing  that  ?  .  .  .  .  There's 
no  rule  that  you  can,"  said  the  adjutant. 

"  There's  no  rule  against  it,"  said  the  other. 

"  There  is  now  " — and  off  the  tiny  sword  had  to  come. 

"  Never  mind  " — philosophically — "  I  bought  it  for 
a  souvenir." 

Someone  was  looking  at  the  "  Honours  "  page  of  the 
Sphere.  "  I  hope  I  never  see  myself  there,"  said  one 
seriously. 

"  Now  then,  H ,  tell  about  that  horse  you  shot." 

He  refused,  but  later  on  was  persuaded  to  tell  me  of 
an  occasion  on  the  journey  to  the  Caucasian  Front, 
when  he  came  across  a  wounded  horse  on  a  narrow  road 
along  the  edge  of  a  cliff.  He  determined  to  put  the  ani- 
mal out  of  its  pain,  so  he  produced  his  revolver — 

"  I  shot  him  through  the  head.     He  looked  at  me  with 


72      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

a  reproachful  smile.  ...  I  shot  him  again  through  the 
forehead.  He  rose  up  to  his  legs  and  fell  two  hundred 
feet  down  the  cliff.  I  let  him  have  another  five  shots 
(I*m  a  good  revolver  shot)  and  I'm  damned  if  he  didn't 
get  up  and  start  eating  the  grass  !  .  .  .  .  God's  truth  ! 
....  It  took  other  three  shots  to  finish  him  off.  .  .  . 
Next  time  I  go  horse-shooting  I'm  going  to  use  the 
three-pounder." 

The  British  chaplain  in  the  Caucasus  (his  home  is  in 
Baku)  came  on  a  visit  to  the  force.  One  night  we  played 
bridge  while  the  parson  sat  reading  in  the  room. 

"  Damn  it  all — I  mean  " — with  a  hurried  glance  at 
the  chaplain — "  dash  it  all,  why  didn't  you  double  ?  "  . .  . 

"  Now  what  the  hell — I  mean  what  the  dev — the 
dickens  "  came  later. 

The  chaplain,  absorbed  in  a  magazine,  had  this  effect 
on  the  others.  .  .  . 

"  You  can  tell  him  that  he  has  as  much  chance  of 
coming  here  as  he  has  of  having  a  litter  of  fiat-fish." 
.  ..."  At  the  beginning  of  the  war  I  thought  of  getting 
married.  I  was  at  the  marriageable  age.  .  .  .  I'm  not 
now.  ...  Of  course  I  may  still  get  married  for  spite. 
....  How  do  you  get  divorced.  ...  I  don't  know." 

"H'sh— sh.  .  .  ." 

"  Divorce  !  " — loudly — "  it's  a  good  enough  word  "... 


There  had  been  a  sort  of  farewell  party  in  the  town 
club.  .  .  .  The  conversation  next  day  included  the 
following  : 

"  Did  he  dance  well,  or  like  a  couple  of  asses  with 
rheumatism  ?  " 

"  .  .  .  .  Face  of  chalk.  ...  By  God  !  but  she  did 
look  bad  !".... 

"  And  X kept  running  about  like  a  dog  out  of 

work." 

"  You  lie,  sir !  ...  .  You  lie — like  a  stinking 
fish  !  "...  . 

Such  conversations  were  typical.  Seldom  did  one 
speak  of  war.  Not  only  at  Kars,  but,  later  on,  in  the 
Dobruja  with  the  advancing  enemy  very  near,  the  mess- 
room  talk  was  flippant  and  slangy — and  British.  Hearing 


IN  A  BRITISH  MESS-ROOM  78 

these  British  officers  and  men  speak,  a  foreigner  might 
be  excused  if  he  thought  that  they  looked  upon  the  war 
as  a  game.  A  wearisome  game  that  was  not  worth 
discussing.  .  .  .  But  I  can  truly  say  this — that  the 
officers  whose  conversation  was  the  most  ffippant  (and 
I  know  them  well)  have  been  mentioned  in  despatches 
and  have  been  decorated  for  their  services  in  the  field. 

So  I  make  no  apologies  for  upsetting  the  ideas  of 
mess-room  conversation  that  some  magazine  writers 
have. 


CHAPTER  IX 

KARS   TO   ODESSA 

They  tell  you  in  Russia  that  you  must  see  the 
Caucasus.  .  .  .  They  tell  of  snow-capped  mountains 
that  out-Alp  Switzerland.  They  tell  of  tropic  gardens 
on  the  plains  ;  of  dense  woods  on  the  mountain  sides 
where  one  can  hunt  big  game  ;  of  roads  that  run  through 
deep  gullies  and  by  the  edge  of  rocky  cliffs  alongside 
sparkling  streams.  They  tell  you  that  there  are  garden 
towns  beside  the  sea  where  palms  and  tropic  flowers 
grow  :  towns  that  out-Nice  the  Riviera.  They  tell  you 
that  there  are  resorts  where  you  can  choose  what  tem- 
perature you  require — you  climb  a  hill,  thermometer 
in  hand,  and  stop  when  the  mercury  has  fallen  low 
enough.  They  tell  of  lovely  women — dark-eyed,  dark- 
haired,  with  skins  of  warm  gold.  .  .  .  But  all  these 
beauties  are  further  north  than  Kars. 

A  ridge  of  bare  grey  hills.  A  native  town  upon  one 
side — flat-roofed  huts  made  of  stone  and  mud,  with 
stacks  of  hay  on  top  and  stacks  of  fire  bricks  made  of 
dung  at  the  side.  A  muddy  river  in  the  valley  with  the 
more  modern  town  on  its  other  bank — a  dreary,  lazy 
town  that  stretches  to  the  railway  line.  There  is  a 
parched,  dusty  barrack  square  with  gloomy  stone 
buildings  on  three  sides.  Hospitals  full  of  wounded 
men — convalescents  in  the  bare  grounds.  Beyond  the 
railway  line  another  barrack  house  with  a  causewayed 
yard  in  front,  and  a  few  streets  of  one-storied  stone  houses 
that  were  army  officers'  quarters  even  before  war  came. 
In  the  causewayed  yard  the  British  armoured  cars 
stood.  The  men  lived  in  the  building  at  the  side.  In 
the  yard  also  was  a  large  kennel  in  which  the  force's 

74 


KARS  TO  ODESSA  75 

mascot — a  bear  presented  to  the  R.N.A.S.  at  Vladi- 
kavkaz— was  kept.  The  officers  were  quartered  in  two 
of  the  army  houses  in  the  chief  row.  Beyond  them,  a 
plain  that  stretched  away  to  meet  another  distant 
mountain  range. 

Of  all  the  uninteresting  towns — dreary,  dismal,  dull — 
that  I  have  ever  been  unfortunate  enough  to  live  in, 
Kars  is  by  far  the  worst.  A  historian  might  have 
found  it  interesting.  There  were  two  old  forts  that 
overlooked  the  plain.  The  town  was  once  a  Turkish 
stronghold.  But  who  cares  for  ancient  history  when 
history  is  being  made  ?  .  .  .  Who  cares  what  happened 
to  the  Turks  of  the  long,  long  ago,  when  there  are  thou- 
sands of  their  race  fighting  not  far  away  in  the  greatest 
war  of  all  the  world  ?  .  .  .  Who  cares  to  learn  of 
English  officers  who  held  the  fort  at  Kars  in  the  dead 
past — when  there  are  British  soldiers  very  much  alive 
marching  beneath  the  fortress  on  the  hill  ?  .  .  .  The 
native  town  was  interesting  for  a  day.  The  dark- eyed 
Armenian  women  and  swarthy  babies  ;  the  lean,  mangy 
dogs  ;  the  water  buffaloes  that  were  attached  to  clumsy 
wagons  whose  wheels  were  simply  solid  rounds  of  wood. 
The  bazaar,  too,  was  interesting — for  the  same  day. 
One  saw  the  native  craftsmen  at  their  work — the  potters 
with  their  clay,  the  coppersmiths  who  made  their  Eastern 
vessels  by  hand,  the  weavers  who  made  cloth  from  camel 
wool.  The  dreary  hills  where  Joseph's-coated  shepherds 
watched  their  flocks  by  day — all  interesting  for  a  day. 
See  them — and  to-morrow  there  is  nothing  new  to  be 
seen. 

I  have  some  memories  of  the  Caucasus.  .  .  .  Snow- 
topped  mountains  very  far  away  ;  dry,  barren  plains 
that  always  were  at  hand  ;  dust  and  heat — and  distance 
— and  sheep.  .  .  .  Distances  were  enormous.  On  some 
parts  of  the  Caucasian  Front  the  lightly  wounded 
Russian  soldiers  walked  two  hundred  versts  to  the 
nearest  lazaret.  Transport  was  difficult.  Some  of  the 
men  had  the  hands  of  their  damaged  arms  quite  black 
with  gangrene.  ...  I  have  seen  long  lines  of  pack 
horses  transporting  munitions  and  stores  in  the  absence 
of  wheeled  vehicles — in  the  absence  of  roads.  .  .  .  And 
sheep  !  .  .  .  I  have  never  seen  such  quantities  of  sheep 
in  any  other  country.     They  were  in  thousands.     They 


76      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

were  special  foreign  sheep — not  like  our  British  ones. 
The  Caucasus  is  sheep-land  par  excellence.  The  Russians 
in  the  trenches  on  some  parts  of  the  Caucasus  smelt  of 
sheep.  (You  know  that  peculiar  muttony  smell  ?) 
They  had  always  mutton — but  often  no  bread.  We  on 
the  northern  front  had  always  had  more  or  less  bread 
— but  not  always  mutton.  .  .  .  The  famous  Caucasian 
dish  is  shashlik — pieces  of  mutton  strung  on  a  long 
steel  skewer  and  roasted  on  an  open  fire. 

Somehow,  after  eighteen  months  with  the  Russian 
Army  at  the  Front,  I  was  able  to  view  the  British  men 
from  a  foreign  point  of  view.  Their  neatness  and  their 
cleanliness  impressed  me  first.  The  men's  uniforms 
were  very  smart  and  tidy.  Their  belts  were  well  cleaned 
and  were  placed  exactly  where  they  ought  to  be.  Their 
boots  were  shined  and  their  rifles  and  bayonets  were 
spotless.  Alas  !  .  .  .  poor  Ivan  Ivan'itch  is  not  always 
a  very  tidy  man.  His  army  blouse  and  trousers  are 
seldom  free  from  tears  and  stains.  The  metal  buckle 
of  his  belt  is  as  a  rule  dull  and  tarnished  ;  the  belt  itself 
is  roughly  put  on.  His  cap  has  its  peak  broken  just  as 
often  as  not — and  his  boots  are  very,  very  seldom  cleaned; 
practically  never  polished.  I  am  writing  only  of  the 
men  on  active  service  in  the  year  1916.  The  "  crack  " 
soldiers  of  the  "  crack  "  regiments  were  all  gone.  .  .  . 
Before  the  war  there  were  some  very  smart  show  regi- 
ments in  Russia.  One  regiment  had  only  fair-haired, 
blue-eyed  soldiers  in  its  ranks,  another  only  dark-haired 
and  dark-eyed  men.  One  regiment  had  all  its  men 
of  the  same  type  of  face — and  all  exactly  the  same  size. 
And  they  were  smart — but  they,  too,  are  gone.  .  .  . 

Ivan  Ivan'itch  is  not  neat.  To  look  at  him  one  would 
think  that  he  was  not  clean.  I  can  upset  this  idea. 
I  find  that  the  Russian  soldier  is  very  clean  indeed — 
not  his  uniform,  but  his  under-linen  and  his  body. 
Certainly  the  Russian  soldier's  idea  of  a  daily  wash  is  a 
peculiar  one.  He  washes  with  a  mug  of  water  in  the 
open  air.  He  takes  a  mouthful  of  this,  holds  it  in  his 
mouth  for  a  few  seconds  to  take  the  chill  off,  spits  it 
into  his  cupped  hands  and  applies  it  to  his  face  and  neck. 
Then  another  mouthful — and  yet  another  until  the  mug 
is  empty.     His  hands  are  washed  by  the  rubbing  on  the 


KARS  TO  ODESSA  77 

face.  His  teeth  are  washed  by  the  mouthfuls  of  water — 
and  the  whole  operation  is  over  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 
This  is  a  poor  substitute  for  the  British  soldier's  morning 
scrub.  I  have  never  seen  a  Russian  soldier  washing 
from  a  basin  or  a  pail  of  water.  Only  a  mug  or  cup. 
When  an  officer  washes,  his  orderly  pours  water  into  his 
hands  from  a  jug.  It  is  like  washing  at  a  running  tap. 
.  .  .  The  taking  of  the  water  into  the  mouth  is  a  great 
idea.  Just  try  for  yourself  to  see  how  much  water  you 
can  hold  in  one  hand,  pouring  it  from  a  cup  with  the 
other.  And  try  the  Russian  soldier's  way !  .  .  .  A 
poor  substitute  for  the  morning  scrub — but  the  Russian 
bath  makes  up  for  this.  It  is  a  very  cleansing  affair. 
Ivan  Ivan'itch  has  his  steam  bath  once  a  week — or,  at 
the  least,  once  a  fortnight.  Special  bath-houses  are 
in  all  the  Russian  regimental  camps,  and  special  bath 
trains  travel  from  point  to  point.  To  these  the  soldiers 
make  their  pilgrimage.  There  are  also  special  "  dis- 
infecting "  detachments  that  travel  from  regiment  to 
regiment.  Steam  baths  can  be  had  in  huge  tents,  and 
while  the  soldiers  wash,  their  uniforms  are  thoroughly 
cleaned. 

The  British  men  at  Kars  impressed  me  by  their  youth. 
They  all  seemed  very  young.  Being  members  of  a  naval 
detachment,  the  men  were  all  clean-shaven.  Some  of 
them  seemed  mere  boys.  The  Russian  soldiers  are 
often  just  as  young,  but  they  look  much  older  than  they 
are.  The  beard  is  deceptive.  We  Britons  find  it 
difficult  to  realise  that  some  big  men  with  long  beards 
and  whiskers  are  aged  less  than  thirty.  The  Russian 
soldier's  boyhood  finishes  very  early  in  point  of  years  : 
in  other  ways  he  remains  very  much  of  a  boy  for  most  of 
his  life.  .  .  .  The  great  big  Russian  men,  for  instance, 
will  laugh  like  boys  at  any  little  thing  the  least  amusing. 
There  was  a  blaseness  about  the  British  men  that 
struck  me  very  forcibly,  too.  These  smaller,  more 
boyish-looking  Britons  smoked  their  pipes  and  looked 
bored.  .  .  . 

But  the  greatest  difference  of  all  was  in  the  soldiers' 
kit.  The  Russian  has  his  coat,  rolled  in  a  ring  and 
carried  bandolier- wise  over  his  shoulder  and  breast  when 
not  in  use,  his  bulgy  knapsack,  his  cooking-pan  that 
also  is  his  eating  dish,  his  tin  mug  (often  this  is  an  empty 


78      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

canned-meat  tin  with  a  handle  on  it),  his  wooden  spoon 
(carried  in  the  leg  of  his  boot),  his  rifle  with  the  bayonet 
fixed  always  and  his  cartridge  pouch,  also  a  green  tin 
box  containing  a  gas  mask.  All  his  belongings  are 
carried  by  himself.  His  coat  is  blanket  or  pillow — he 
has  to  choose  one  or  other.  If  the  coat  is  blanket,  his 
knapsack  lies  under  his  head  ;  if  the  coat  is  rolled  into  a 
pillow,  he  sleeps  uncovered. 

The  British  men  had  their  excellent  clothes  and  over- 
coat, their  strong-made,  serviceable,  well-polished  boots 
and  tidy  puttees  ;  their  rifle,  with  the  bayonet  carried 
at  their  side  and  their  neat  knapsacks  and  food  tins  and 
water-bottles  ;  their  blankets  and  their  waterproof 
ground  sheets  ;  and,  in  a  big  kit-bag,  a  suit  of  leather 
and  at  least  one  other  uniform,  rubber  boots  and  warm 
woollen  socks  and  excellent  leather  gloves  ;  a  winter  hat 
— and  heaven  knows  what  in  the  way  of  underwear. 
Also  these  British  men  were  rich  !  They  had.  their 
wrist-watches  and  writing  cases  and  toilet  outfits,  and 
other  odds  and  ends  of  personal  attire  and  possession. 
Each  man  was  rich  apart  from  his  6s.  6d.  sl  day  com- 
pared with  the  Russian  men.  And  each  British  soldier 
had  his  plate  and  his  cup  and  his  knife  and  fork  and  his 
spoon.  The  Russian  has  only  a  tin  and  a  spoon  to  serve 
for  all  occasions — cooking  and  eating.  And  the  Russian 
never  grumbles — and  the  British  men  in  Russia  did  !  .  .  . 

The  question  of  food  ...  I  know  it  is  not  a  fair 
comparison.  I  know  that  the  Russian  soldiers  in  time 
of  peace  never  fared  as  these  British  men  did.  I  know 
that  the  average  Russian  peasant  had  meat  only  twice  a 
year — Easter  and  Christmas.  I  know  that  his  living 
conditions  were  very  much  below  those  of  our  British 
soldiers.  I  know  all  that — but  here  is  the  difference 
just  the  same.  The  Russian  with  his  black  bread  and 
his  kasha  and  his  cabbage  soup  and  his  lump  of  boiled 
meat  and  his  tea.  The  Briton  with  tinned  salmon, 
and  biscuits  and  white  bread,  and  corned  beef  and 
"  Maconochie "  stew,  and  tinned  rabbit  and  butter 
and  marmalade — jam  of  other  sorts — and  porridge 
and  soups  and  puddings  and  tea  and  coffee  and  cocoa 
and  chocolate. 

As  for  the  officers — every  article  they  had  in  the  way 
of  uniform  and  kit  and  equipment  was  many  times 


KARS  TO  ODESSA 


79 


better  than  that  of  the  Russians.  One  finds  with  grateful 
pride  that  British  goods  are  truly  best.  Others  are  very 
far  behind.  ...  In  the  matter  of  rations  I  have  found 
that  the  Russians  have  the  better  of  it.  A  Russian 
officers'  mess  with  its  generous  supply  of  food  is  a 
banquet  compared  with  the  British  officers'  mess-room. 
The  cooking  is  much  better.  Our  English  table  has 
much  to  learn  from  Russia.  Indeed,  referring  again  to 
the  soldiers'  food,  I  am  not  sure  but  what  the  simple 
fare  of  the  Russians  is  much  more  nourishing  and  much 
more  health-giving  than  the  preserved  food  with  which 
the  British  soldiers  were  rationed  in  Kars  and  elsewhere. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  interesting  to  tell  what  my  rations 
in  the  Russian  Army  are.  At  the  moment  of  writing 
(June,  1917)  I  receive  daily  the  following  allowances  : 


Meat  (this  includes  beef,  mutton,  ham  and  sausage)... 

1    lb. 

Butter        

2§oz. 

Eggs           

1    oz. 

Rice,  Kasha,  etc.              

2f  oz. 

Flour          

3J0Z. 

Macaroni 

2|oz. 

Sugar          

4|  oz. 

Bread  (black  or  white — usually  black)... 

Hlb. 

Cabbage,  carrots,  onions  or  other  vegetables 

6loz. 

Potatoes 

1    lb. 

Milk            

i    lb. 

and  each  month  I  receive  5  oz.  of  tea  and  10  oz.  of 
coffee. 

I  find  that  these  rations  are  ample.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  Russians  drink  their  tea  very  weak, 
so  that  the  allowance  of  an  ounce  and  a  quarter  a  week 
is  ample.  Jam,  as  we  in  England  know  it,  is  unknown 
on  the  Russian  Front.  At  present  (June,  1917)  our 
woods  are  full  of  wild  strawberries  and  whortle-berries. 
The  soldiers  gather  pans  of  these  each  day.  We  put 
them  in  our  glasses  of  tea — and  sop  them  before  we 
drink  the  tea.     This  is  the  nearest  to  jam  we  ever  get ! 

After  some  weeks  in  Kars,  the  British  R.N.A.S.  Force 
received  orders  to  proceed  to  the  Roumanian  Front. 
For  two  days  and  nights  the  men  worked  steadily  at  the 
loading  of  the  special  train  in  which  they  were  to  travel 
to  Odessa.  On  Sunday,  October  15,  the  Russian  General 
in  command  of  the  town  reviewed  the  force.     Next 


80      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

evening,  when  it  was  dark,  a  Russian  military  band 
played  at  the  entrance  to  the  British  barrack  yard  while 
the  transport  wagons  went  to  the  station  with  loads  of 
stores  and  baggage  and  rattled  back  empty  to  be  filled 
again.  Early  on  Tuesday,  October  17,  the  British 
armoured  car  train  left  Kars  for  Tiflis,  arriving  there 
next  day  at  noon.  On  Friday,  the  20th,  the  train  left 
Tiflis,  and  on  the  Saturday,  while  the  train  was  standing 
at  a  small  station.  Commander  Gregory  presented 
Russian  decorations  to  several  of  the  men  who  had 
gained  them  in  the  actions  on  the  Turkish  Front. 
On  November  1,  the  train  arrived  at  Odessa.  The  men 
took  up  their  residence  in  one  of  the  large  barracks. 
The  following  Sunday  the  men  were  given  a  dinner, 
and  the  officers  were  entertained  at  dinner  by  the 
Russian  military  and  naval  officers  in  the  town,  after 
which  followed  a  gala  performance  at  the  opera,  to  which 
the  men  also  were  invited. 

The  journey  from  Kars  to  Odessa  was  very  dull  and 
weary.  We  started  in  the  sunshine,  but  we  were 
wearing  warm  clothes  and  overcoats  before  we  reached 
Odessa.  A  goods  wagon  had  a  stove  fixed  in  it  so  that 
it  became  the  force's  kitchen.  The  officers  had  their 
meals  brought  to  them  in  the  compartments  in  which 
they  travelled.  And  oh  !  the  grumbles  about  the  food  ! 
...  At  Kars  the  rations  were  "  pooled  "  ;  in  the  train 
each  officer  had  his  own  tins  of  jam  and  condensed  milk 
and  his  own  packet  of  sugar.  One  officer  grumbled 
that  the  strawberry  jam  was  "damn  all  strawberry 
except  the  label."  Another,  when  asked  if  he  had  any 
complaints  to  make,  said  that  the  first  blanc-mange 
served  in  nine  months  was  cold  !  .  .  .  And  a  third 
complained  bitterly  of  the  candles  because  they  "  leaked." 
The  train  was  entirely  candle-lit  and  what  with  the 
wind  and  the  rattling  of  the  carriages,  the  grease  dripped 
and  splashed  on  to  our  clothes  and  bedding  whenever 
night  came. 

And  some  of  the  officers  found  the  rations  too  small. 

"  Could  you  lind  Mr. a  wee  taste  o'  milk,  sorr  ?  " 

said  an  Irish  orderly. 

It  was  a  lazy  time.  Breakfast  in  bed — always  a 
luxury  ! — and  all  the  morning  in  which  to  shave  and 
wash  and  dress.     Bridge  in  the  afternoon  and  at  night. 


4  •  •  •   • 


t 


KARS  TO  OPESSA  81 

Walks  on  the  platforms  of  the  various  railway  stations 
or  in  the  towns  themselves  when  we  stopped  long 
enough. 

And  Lieutenant  Mitchell,  a  wit  and  a  philosopher  after 
my  own  heart  (I  wonder  if  his  sense  of  humour  will 
sustain  him  now  that  he  is  in  Bulgarian  hands  ?),  used 
to  lie  in  bed  and  give  his  views  on  all  things  wise  and 
otherwise.  .  .  . 

*'  Ten  o'clock's  a  sensible  time  to  have  breakfast," 
he  said  one  morning.  "  What's  the  use  of  callin'  us  at 
eight  and  lettin'  us  lie  around  pickin'  our  noses  before 
we  get  up.  Now,  this  is  two  hours  that  I  don't  have 
to  fill  in.  In  other  words,  two  hours  nearer  the  end  of 
the  war." 

You  see  the  advantages  of  sleep.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   DOBRUJA 

From  Odessa  the  British  Armoured  Car  Force  went 
north  and  west  by  train  to  Reni,  the  frontier  town, 
thence  by  barge  to  Hirsova,  a  Uttle  town  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Danube,  a  few  hours  up-stream  from  Braila, 
where  the  river  coming  from  the  south  sweeps  round  at 
right  angles  towards  the  east  and  to  the  sea.  Islands — 
low,  marshy,  willow-clad  islands — split  the  stream  in 
two  and  many  smaller  currents  run  on  either  side  so 
that  there  is  a  wide  delta  many  miles  before  the  Black 
Sea  is  reached.  Hirsova  had  already  been  in  Bulgarian 
hands.  The  enemy  had  been  driven  out,  but  first  of 
all  he  fired  what  few  houses  were  still  undamaged.  The 
Russians  themselves  had  destroyed  much  of  the  town 
before  evacuating  it  on  the  approach  of  the  Bulgars. 
Very  few  houses  were  left  standing.  Only  one,  indeed, 
a  small  cottage  with  a  wooden  verandah,  had  quite 
escaped  destruction.  This  became  the  R.N.A.S.  head- 
quarters. It  stood  at  the  top  of  the  hill  beside  the  ruins 
of  a  one-time  lovely  mansion.  Other  houses  nearby 
with  roofs  on  them  were  found  for  the  Force.  But 
most  of  these  had  been  damaged  more  or  less.  Windows 
were  out — and  doors  had  to  be  hastily  rebuilt — and  the 
streets  in  which  they  stood  were  littered  with  blackened 
bricks  and  broken  glass  and  fallen  stone. 

The  end  of  November  saw  the  British  cars  in  action 
once  again.  The  country  was  very  difficult  for  auto- 
mobiles. Mud  was  the  trouble — greasy  mud — but  after 
the  difficulties  in  the  Caucasus  other  troubles  were 
minimised.  All  these  squadrons  went  into  action  against 
the  Bulgars  south  of  Hirsova,  reaping  a  good  harvest 


THE  DOBRUJA  83 

of  the  enemy.  The  cars  did  not  get  quite  up  to  the 
Bulgarian  trenches  (the  barbed  wire  had  not  been  des- 
troyed) but  they  got  near  enough  to  inflict  considerable 
losses.  Two  armoured  cars  broke  down  near  the 
enemy's  position.  Lieutenant  Mitchell  and  three  men — 
a  chief  petty  officer  and  two  petty  officers — left  their 
car  and  took  shelter  in  a  shell  hole  on  the  automobile 
not  being  able  to  proceed  further.  What  actually  went 
wrong  I  do  not  know.  Immediately  after  this  a  shell 
hit  the  car  turret  direct,  made  a  clean  hole  but  other- 
wise did  no  damage.  The  other  car,  in  charge  of 
Lieutenant  Wright-Ingle,  stopped  and  the  self-starter 
refused  to  work.  The  lieutenant  himself  got  out  and 
started  the  car  again.  A  second  time  it  stopped  and  a 
second  time  he  got  out.  The  engine  again  ceased  to 
work.  The  officer  got  out  to  wind  it  up  again  and  was 
shot  above  the  knee,  his  leg  being  broken — a  compound 
fracture.  The  three  men  of  his  car  then  carried  him  into 
the  shell  hole  where  the  other  officer  and  men  were, 
and  soon  after  this  the  Bulgarians  advanced  and  took 
them  prisoners.  At  this  time  heavy  Russian  fire 
caused  the  Bulgars  to  retire  again.  They  took  Lieu- 
tenant Mitchell  and  the  six  men  with  them,  but  left 
Lieutenant  Wright-Ingle,  giving  him  to  understand 
that  they  would  return  for  him  once  they  had  obtained  a 
stretcher. 

Dusk  came — and  dark.  The  Russian  fire  checked  any 
further  forward  movement  of  the  enemy.  The  Bulgars 
with  the  promised  stretcher  did  not  arrive.  Lieutenant 
Wright-Ingle  thought  he  would  try  to  reach  the  Russian 
lines.  Sitting  on  the  ground  with  his  left  leg  stretched 
out,  he  rested  the  broken  right  leg  on  it  and  commenced 
to  pull  himself  backwards  along  the  ground.  The 
distance  he  had  to  go  was  less  than  a  mile  and  a  half, 
but  he  was  nearly  twelve  hours  on  the  way.  Once  he 
came  across  the  case  of  a  15-pounder  shell  and  for  some 
minutes  pondered  as  to  whether  he  should  take  it  with 
him  as  a  souvenir  or  not !  As  if  the  shattered  leg  was 
not  enough !  .  .  .  Several  times,  too,  he  heard  men 
moving  within  speaking  distance  of  him,  but  not  knowing 
their  nationality  he  kept  very  still  until  they  had 
passed.  And  these  men  were  fellow  officers  and  soldiers 
of  the  R.N.A.S.  who  went  with  horses  under  the  covering 

G  2 


84      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

darkness  and  rescued  the  two  armoured  cars  which  had 
been  temporarily  lost !  They  had  passed  at  least  twice 
that  night  within  a  few  yards  of  where  Lieutenant 
Wright-Ingle  lay. 

On  nearing  the  Russian  lines  the  lieutenant  called 
out — "  Angliski  officer  !  .  .  .  Angliski  officer  !  " 

At  first  the  Russian  soldiers  did  not  understand. 
They  called  out  that  no  English  officer  was  there.  But 
when  they  realised  that  it  was  an  English  officer  who 
was  calling  out  to  them  they  at  once  went  to  help  him 
on  his  last  few  yards  to  safety — and  freedom. 

The  defence  of  the  Dobruja  was  at  this  time  almost 
entirely  in  the  hands  of  Russian  regiments  and  the 
British  armoured  cars.  How  things  might  have  turned 
out  cannot  be  said,  but  the  real  trouble  lay  to  the 
north,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  where  the  Roumanian 
army  was  being  rapidly  pressed  back.  The  question 
of  the  abandoning  of  the  Dobruja  was  only  a  matter  of 
time  unless  the  enemy  on  the  right  was  checked.  On 
Saturday,  December  9,  news  came  that  Hirsova  must  be 
abandoned.  I  think  that  on  this  date  it  was  practically 
decided  to  withdraw  all  the  troops  to  the  other  side  of 
the  Danube.  The  armoured  cars  were  to  remain  to 
fight  a  rearguard  action  if  necessary  and  then  to  make 
for  Tulsha,  a  Dobruja  port  lower  down  the  river  than 
Reni.  The  transport  wagons  and  stores  were  to  pro- 
ceed by  barge  down-stream  to  Reni — or  perhaps  even 
further. 

The  loading  of  the  big  barges  commenced.  These 
vessels  were  as  large  as  ships — several  times  larger  than 
the  barges  one  sees  on  "  grim — old — Thames  of  after 
life."  One  went  off  that  night  and  the  loading  of  the 
other  barge  was  proceeding  when  news  came  that  the 
position  was  more  favourable  and  that  there  was  no 
immediate  necessity  to  leave  Hirsova.  I  had  already 
had  my  baggage  taken  to  the  small  cabin  at  the  stern 
of  the  barge,  but  I  had  it  removed  to  the  wrecked  town 
again.  This  cabin  stunk  abominably.  The  cause,  we 
soon  discovered,  was  a  large  cask  of  cabbage  in  course 
of  preparation  into  sauerkraut.  This  we  managed  to 
have  removed  on  deck  after  many  persuasive  words  with 
the  barge-master ;  also  after  considerable  difficulty 
in  getting  it  up  the  steep  ffight  of  stairs.  .  .  .  There 


THE  DOBRUJA  85 

were  two  small  tables  in  the  cabin,  some  potted  plants 
that  had  more  stalks  than  leaves,  a  photograph  of  the 
barge-master  and  his  wife  in  wedding  dress,  and  a  case 
of  tin  soldiers  representing  scenes  in  the  Crimean  war. 
.  .  .  Otherwise  the  cabin  was  bare  and  gloomy  and  very- 
damp. 

I  slept  on  the  floor  of  a  partly  wrecked  cottage  that 
night.  By  the  orders  of  the  Staff  a  party  of  men  with 
a  three-pounder  gun  and  some  machine-guns  had  taken 
up  a  position  on  the  top  of  a  cliff  overlooking  the  harbour. 
This  cliff  commanded  the  curve  of  the  river,  up-stream. 
It  was  thought  that  perhaps  some  Austrian  monitors 
would  come  down  our  way.  .  .  .  There  was  some- 
thing of  comedy  in  that  firing  party  waiting  on  the  cliff 
to  sink  gunboats  with  maxim-guns.  The  men's  remarks 
were  rich  in  sarcasm.  Nothing  took  place  ;  it  was  very 
cold  ;  and  finally  the  officer  in  charge  decided  that  he 
might  sleep  for  a  little.  He  sat  in  a  motor-car  and  soon 
dozed  off.  A  sentry  had  been  posted  to  watch  the 
stream.  Later  the  sentry  awoke  the  officer  with  the 
news  that  a  ship  was  coming  down-stream.  The  officer 
jumped  out  of  the  car  at  once  to  see  the  vessel.  And 
then  he  saw  a  little  tug  with  mast  light  and  starboard 
light  and  port  light — "  all  the  blanky  Thames  regu- 
lations," he  told  me  afterwards — coming  steaming  down 
the  river  ! 

There  certainly  was  the  possibility  of  an  attack  during 
the  night.  The  opposite  bank  of  the  river  might  have 
revealed  the  enemy  at  any  time.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  if  necessary  three  shots  in  succession  would  be  the 
signal  of  alarm.  I  was  awake  at  5  a.m.  I  walked 
through  the  silent,  deserted  streets  to  the  R.N.A.S. 
headquarters.  A  sentry  was  stationed  on  the  wooden 
verandah.  We  spoke  for  a  little.  It  was  somewhat 
uncanny — all  the  silence  ;  it  was  agreeable  to  have  a 
conversation.  The  soldier  expressed  his  disapproval 
of  the  Roumanian  army.  .  .  . 

"  These  Central  Powers  don't  seem  to  have  any  guts 
in  them,"  he  said  to  me. 

The  while  we  talked  two  shots  came  from  the  lower 
town.  But  only  two.  The  third  came  not.  Unless 
.  .  .  unless,  perhaps,  we  had  not  heard  it.  Here  was  a 
dilemma.      Three   shots — the   alarm.     We   had   heard 


86      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

two  only.  Query — Had  we  missed  the  third  ?  .  .  . 
Men's  voices  from  the  lower  town  ;  men  shouting  to  each 
other.  .  .  .  Russian  men — I  had  heard  these  swear 
words  too  often  not  to  know  them  by  this  time  !  .  .  . 
All  was  probably  well. 

What  had  happened  was  that  a  British  sentry  guarding 
some  stores  on  the  quay  had  fired  his  rifle  in  the  air  to 
frighten  off  some  suspicious  loiterers  he  had  seen — and 
at  the  next  moment  a  Russian  soldier  in  a  Russian 
camp  nearby  had  fired  his  rifle  to  waken  up  the  rest 
of  the  men.  It  was  his  idea  of  arousing  the  camp  from 
sleep  ! 

That  afternoon,  Sunday,  found  my  belongings  on  the 
barge  again.  Orders  had  been  received  to  leave  at  night. 
But  these  were  cancelled  in  the  evening,  so  I  spent 
another  night  on  the  floor  of  a  cottage  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    RETREAT   ON   THE   DANUBE 

On  Monday,  December  11,  the  news  was  more  hopeful. 
We  prepared  to  settle  down  in  Hirsova  for  a  time.  I 
found  a  wrecked  sewing-machine  amongst  the  ruins  of 
a  house.  The  machine  was  beyond  repair,  and  certainly 
I  had  no  use  for  it  in  any  case,  but  the  little  table  on 
which  it  was  fixed  was  serviceable.  Then  a  wire  mat- 
tress was  dug  out  from  a  heap  of  fallen  stones,  and  a 
happy  home  was  in  its  genesis — until  one  o'clock,  when 
orders  came  to  be  on  board  the  barge  at  two.  So  down 
the  hill  towards  the  greasy,  muddy  quay  again.  A 
gloomy  place  it  was,  but  a  very  busy  one.  There  were 
the  British  motor  lorries  there  with  loads  of  boxes  and 
barrels  and  tins.  Some  Russian  armoured  cars  and 
transport  wagons,  too.  The  belongings  of  a  Russian 
lazaret  were  being  loaded  on  a  Red  Cross  barge  ;  the 
wounded  and  the  sick  were  already  on  board. 

The  barge  on  which  the  British  cars  and  men  were 
going  to  travel  was  moored  to  another  barge  tied  up  to 
the  quay.  Russian  artillery  was  on  this  second  barge, 
also  heaps  of  scrap  iron  and  various  lumber.  A  gang- 
way of  planks  connected  the  two  vessels,  and  a  gangway 
ran  at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees  from  the  quay  to  the 
deck  of  the  one  nearer  shore.  Up  this  the  British  cars 
had  to  go — on  to  the  barge  loaded  with  guns  and  metal 
rubbish,  and  with  a  bump  on  to  the  deck  of  their  own 
chartered  vessel.  This  deck  was  stacked  with  boxes — 
mostly  ship's  biscuits  and  bully  beef — which  the  men 
all  hoped  would  topple  overboard.  Indeed,  when  the 
cars  were  all  on  board  with  all  the  stores  and  luggage 
too,  the  barge  seemed  in  danger  of  being  top-heavy. 

87 


88      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

A  greasy,  gloomy  place  that  quay  at  Hirsova.  The 
heavy  cars  rattling  down  the  streets  and  sliding  through 
the  mud  ;  motor  bicycles  with  despatch  riders  bumping 
across  the  causeway  ;  British  soldiers  running  about  at 
work  like  ants,  carrying  stores  on  board  the  barge  ; 
Russians  loading  their  own  vessels,  with  curious  glances 
at  the  British  men.  A  Russian  naval  officer  shouting 
orders  hoarsely.  A  Roumanian  policeman  in  comic 
attire — old  striped  civilian  trousers,  a  black  ragged 
coat  and  a  sort  of  bowler  hat ;  Roumanian  sentries 
equally  funny  in  appearance.  And  the  muddy  river 
that  came  swirling  round  a  bend  towards  the  quay, 
with  the  low  marshy  banks  across  the  stream  showing 
dimly  through  a  veil  of  mist. 

Dusk  came,  and  darkness,  and  one  felt  the  dampness 
of  the  river  air.  A  chilly  wind  blew,  and  the  unlit 
quay  and  the  unlit  town  made  coldness  seem  more  so. 
A  barge  crowded  with  Russian  soldiers  came  up-stream 
and  disgorged  its  cargo  of  men  upon  the  quay.  Faint 
flickering  lanterns  shone  dimly  orange  upon  the  vessel's 
decks.  The  Russian  men  were  phantoms  in  the  dark — 
one  saw  the  glow  of  cigarettes  ;  a  man's  face  with  a 
match-light  shining  on  it ;  there  was  the  peculiar  smell 
of  machorka  and  boots.  .  .  .  When  one  of  the  British 
cars  came  rumbling  on  the  quay,  the  acetylene  lamps 
would  glare  upon  us  for  a  while  and  cheer  us  out  of  the 
dank  gloom — but  when  the  car  went  off  again  we  felt 
the  darkness  and  the  chill  even  more.  We  could  follow 
the  car's  progress  through  the  town — the  white-yellow 
light  climbed  up  and  up.  .  .  .  And  what  a  cheerless 
place  that  iron-walled  cabin  was  !  The  smell  of  sour 
cabbage  still  was  there.  The  floor  was  wet  and  slippery. 
The  walls  were  wetter  still.  And  down  the  steep  stairway 
came  a  gusty  draught,  because  our  unaccustomed 
feet  had  smashed  the  glass-work  of  the  window- 
door. 

We  slept  on  board  that  night — or  rather  we  tried  to 
sleep.  Our  barge  kept  bumping  on  the  one  near  shore, 
and  a  third  arrival  bumped  on  us  from  the  outside. 
And  the  river  splashed  against  us,  and  queer  gurgling 
sounds  came  from  underneath  the  floor.  Men's  voices 
from  the  quay  ;  tramping  of  heavy  feet  upon  the  deck  ; 
rattling  of  chains — and  always  the  hoarse  voice  of  that 


THE  RETREAT  ON  THE  DANUBE     89 

Russian  naval  man,  the  quay  commander,  who  never 
seemed  to  have  a  rest. 

Tuesday,  the  12th,  and  the  long-absent  sun  was  up 
before  we  were.  A  lovely  clear,  bright  morning.  And 
we  were  still  at  Hirsova.  We  washed  in  Danube  water 
drawn  from  the  river  in  a  pail.  We  also  went  a  walk 
upon  the  quay.  After  five  hopeless  days  I  wished  to 
make  photographs  while  the  sun  shone,  so  I  went  for 
my  Kodak.  .  .  .  The  Russian  naval  commander  was 
shouting  orders  on  the  quay.  I  asked  him  how  long 
we  were  likely  to  remain.  He  did  not  know.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  an  hour — perhaps  all  day.  So  I  went  into  the 
wrecked  town  to  photograph.  It  was  a  very  dead 
place.  In  one  street  I  met  two  Russian  men  and  an 
English  despatch  rider.  In  another,  three  or  four 
Russians,  but  most  of  the  narrow  streets  were  quite 
deserted.  I  did  not  even  see  a  single  dog.  ...  I  had 
been  twenty  minutes  in  the  town  and  had  reached  one 
of  the  ruined  streets  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  when  I  heard 
a  tug  whistle  tooting  on  the  river.  That,  thought  I, 
is  our  barge,  so  I  raced  down  the  hill  and  reached  the 
quay  breathless.  Barge  No.  620  was  still  fastened  there. 
I  went  on  board  for  a  little,  saw  the  Russian  Commander 
again  on  the  nearer  shore  barge,  and  asked  him  for  further 
news  of  our  departure.  He  did  not  know.  Perhaps 
soon — perhaps  late.  ...  So  I  went  on  to  the  quay  for 
a  single  minute  to  find  the  comic  policeman  and  to 
photograph  him.  And  while  I  was  there  (and  the  police- 
man was  not !)  the  barge  suddenly  sailed  away  behind  a 
noisy  little  tug.     So  I  was  left  behind. 

The  Russian  Commander  laughed  when  he  saw  me. 
But  he  pointed  out  a  second  tug  that  was  just  steaming 
off.  I  shouted  and  whistled  and  waved  my  arms,  so  the 
man  at  the  wheel  steered  in  towards  the  shore  again 
and  I  reached  his  vessel  by  jumping  on  to  a  mine-laying 
ship  and  from  it  to  a  second.  Then  we  set  off  to  catch 
up  on  the  barge  which  was  sailing  down-stream  at  a 
great  rate.  A  few  toots  on  a  steam  whistle,  and  Barge 
No.  620  slowed  down,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  climbed  on 
board  and  joined  the  officers  in  the  smelly  cabin. 

"  I've  got  some  good  snapshots  of  your  barge  in  mid- 
stream," said  I. 


90      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  Lieutenant to  the 

others,  then  to  me,  "  I  knew  jolly  well  that  you  had 
stayed  behind  for  that  purpose." 

The  barge-master,  his  wife,  his  three  babies,  his 
mother-in-law,  and  his  first  officer  all  lived  at  our 
end  of  the  vessel.  The  first-mentioned  six  lived  in  a 
tiny  deck  cabin  eight  feet  by  ten.  It  was  like  a  little 
summer-house.  A  wonderfully  clean  cabin  it  was, 
with  wonderfully  clean,  black-eyed  children  (such  dark 
eyes  as  I  have  never  seen  before).  On  one  side  of  this 
tiny  house  were  pens  containing  two  sheep  and  some 
poultry — chickens  and  geese  ;  on  the  other  side  was  a 
stye  with  a  couple  of  pigs.  Also  there  were  two  dogs 
and  a  pup — the  last  having  a  habit  of  falling  into  the 
water  at  intervals,  to  be  rescued  by  the  barge-master 
and  his  mate,  while  we  and  the  pup's  parents  looked 
anxiously  on  from  above. 

There  were  many  craft  upon  the  river.  Mine-layers 
with  long  arms  stretching  out  in  front ;  river  steamers 
anchored  here  and  there  ;  a  Red  Cross  barge  full  of  sick 
and  wounded  men  ;  tiny  gunboats  racing  up-stream  and 
making  great  waves  on  either  side.  Then  just  below  a 
low  pontoon  bridge  that  was  guarded  by  a  torpedo 
net,  some  Russian  monitors  lying  low  in  the  water. 
Below  them,  too,  were  warships  of  old  design,  and  many 
barges,  nearly  all  the  latter  going  down  towards  the  sea. 
A  small  destroyer  or  two  went  up-stream,  the  funnels 
belching  out  black  smoke.  .  .  .  That  night  we  anchored 
near  the  right-hand  bank — a  Thames  river  bank  lined 
with  Thames-bank  willows.  Also  we  had  an  oil  stove 
in  our  little  room  ;  also  the  men  sang  cheerily  in  the 
hold — perhaps  to  scare  the  rats  away. 

All  day  on  Wednesday,  the  13th,  we  stayed  at  anchor. 
Our  tug  had  gone  up-stream  again  to  fetch  some  other 
barges  down.  It  was  a  gloomy,  misty  day.  In  the 
evening  we  were  towed  further  down-stream.  We 
anchored  a  little  way  up  the  river  from  Braila,  whose 
blurred  lights  we  saw  across  the  water.  Other  tugs 
passed  up  and  down,  their  red  and  green  lights  slanting 
out  in  quivering  crinkly  lines  upon  the  river's  breast. 

Then  came  a  sunny  morning.  The  river  was  covered 
with  floating  pools  of  oil — dark  green  oil  and  lighter 
patches  that  shone  with  rainbow  colours  in  the  sun's 


THE  RETREAT  ON  THE  DANUBE     91 

rays.  A  long  line  of  pontoon  boats  was  tied  up  to  the 
north  bank  of  the  river.  Many  Roumanian  soldiers 
were  working  there  beneath  some  steep  sand  cliffs. 
We  bribed  some  men  to  row  us  ashore.  A  Roumanian 
soldier  greeted  me  when  I  landed.  He  spoke  the 
English  of  the  U.S.A.  where  he  had  been  an  engineer. 
We  walked  down  the  river  bank  towards  Braila.  A  ship 
tied  up  a  mile  or  so  above  the  quay  was  taking  on  a 
cargo  of  Roumanian  soldiers.  Dark  blue-coated,  black 
woolly-hatted  men,  with  heavy  clumsy  sacks  of  personal 
luggage.  Not  kit-bags — just  ordinary  sacks.  A  more 
unwarlike  crowd  I  have  never  seen  in  army  uniform. 
....  We  branched  off  to  the  left,  past  some  Rou- 
manian barracks  where  a  crowd  of  men  was  gathered 
round  an  officer  who  distributed  various  kit ;  past  a 
field  where  a  line  of  wagons  stood  loaded  with  pontoon 
boats,  and  oxen  were  standing  nearby  ready  to  take  the 
wagons  away  ;  then  to  the  right  along  a  muddy  road 
crowded  with  refugees  and  Russian  and  Roumanian 
soldiers  ;  and  so  towards  the  town. 

I  can  imagine  that  Braila  in  peace  time  was  a  pretty 
little  town,  and  a  prosperous  one.  But  war  had  cast  a 
gloom  upon  it.  The  garden  square  in  the  centre  of  the 
town  was  untidy,  as  most  December  gardens  are.  Most 
of  the  shops  were  shut ;  most  of  the  windows  had  been 
cleared  of  goods.  The  crowd  was  cosmopolitan.  Rou- 
manian refugees  and  Roumanian  officers  and  men ; 
Russian  officers  and  soldiers  ;  a  French  doctor  or  two 
with  French  Sceurs  de  Charite ;  a  trooper  of  King 
Edward's  Horse,  who  did  not  seem  to  know  an  English 
officer  when  he  saw  one — perhaps  he  was  orderly  to 
Colonel  Norton  Griffiths,  M.P.  ?  .  .  .  .  Roumanian 
nurses  and  Russian  Sisters,  too ;  and  the  splendid  women 
of  the  Scottish  Women's  Field  Hospital — surely  the 
hardest  working  and  the  bravest  of  all  the  women  at 
the  war.  .  .  .  Fierce-looking  Roumanian  soldiers 
marched  spies  through  the  streets,  holding  their  long 
rifles  so  that  the  bayonets  rested  just  an  inch  from  the 
spies'  backs. 

The  quay  at  Braila  was  a  wonderful  sight.  A  regi- 
ment of  men  was  resting  on  the  broad  causeway  of  the 
harbour.  A  mass  of  steamers  and  barges  was  tied  up 
along  the  river  bank,  and,  coming  in  towards  the  centre 


92      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

of  the  quay  was  a  great  Russian  transport  ship,  its 
decks  crowded  with  soldiers.  Refugees  were  on  the 
quay,  too,  and  wounded  men,  and  more  Scottish  nurses 
in  their  serviceable  grey  uniform.  Russian  sailors  and 
Russian  naval  officers  ;  grimy  stokers  getting  some  fresh 
air  ;  horses  and  gun-carriages  and  wagons  of  all  kinds 
standing  where  they  had  been  landed.  A  Roumanian 
soldier  here  and  there,  and  a  Roumanian  officer  or  two 
with  their  lady  friends.  .  .  .  Crowded  ships  going  off 
down-stream. 

There  was  a  caf6  on  the  east  side  of  the  garden  square. 
It  was  a  crowded,  noisy,  smoky  place.  Rattle  of  dishes, 
clink  of  glasses,  hum  of  many  voices.  Bursts  of  laughter 
from  one  table — a  woman's  high-pitched  voice  from 
another ;  snatches  of  conversation  in  at  least  four 
tongues.  ...  I  met  a  lieutenant  of  the  Russian  Hussars 
there  whom  I  had  met  in  Kiev.  I  also  met  two  of  my 
Caucasian  sapper  friends  with  whom  I  had  stayed  at 
Krevo  on  the  middle  Russian  Front.  Russian  and 
Roumanian  and  British  officers  sat  at  lunch  together. 
At  the  next  table  were  the  French  doctors  and  two  French 
Sisters  of  Charity — and  very  pretty  ladies  these  two 
were  !  .  .  .  .  And  we  drank  watery  sour  red  wine  and 
watery  Roumanian  brandy,  bottled  in  shoulderless 
bottles  labelled  "  Mumm  "!....  Once  upon  a  time, 
I  saw  some  musical  comedy  officers  behind  the  scenes 
in  a  London  theatre.  Officers  of  the  "  Merry  Widow  " 
order.  I  saw  them  all  again  in  that  Roumanian  town. 
I  swear  that  these  Roumanian  officers  I  saw  in  Braila 
wore  corsets.  ...  I  know  that  they  wore  patent 
boots,  and  I  saw  several  whose  faces  had  been  "  made 
up  "...  .  And  I  know  that  one  assured  me  as  a  fact 
that  Sweden  had  declared  war  on  Russia.  .  .  .  Alto- 
gether a  depressing  set.  .  .  . 

Now  there  was  an  English  orderly  who  came  on  shore 
with  us  to  carry  back  our  purchases.  He  carried  a 
leather  portmanteau  with  him,  and  he  smoked  a  Gold 
Flake  cigarette.  That  cigarette,  or  one  just  like  it, 
was  ever  hanging  from  his  lips.  Also  he  never  smiled, 
although  his  face  twisted  a  very  little  now  and  then. 
His  name  may  not  have  been  Bill  'Awkins,  but  that  is 


THE  RETREAT  ON  THE  DANUBE     93 

the  one  name  that  I  think  of  that  will  fit  him  best.     So 
in  this  chapter  Bill  'Awkins  he  will  be. 

I  heard  of  Bill  in  Hirsova.  It  was  the  day  after  the 
one  on  which  we  were  first  told  to  go.  Bill's  officer 
woke  early  that  morning.     "  Hawkins  !  "  he  cried. 

There  was  a  scramble  from  behind  a  partition. 
"  Yussir  ?  " 

"  Are  you  dressed  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     But  I  got  me  'at  on." 

You  see  what  sort  of  chap  was  Bill.  .  .  . 

When  we  arrived  in  Braila,  we  gave  Bill  twenty-five 
roubles  (we  had  no  Roumanian  money  with  us)  and 
told  him  to  buy  some  fresh  meat  and  whatever  other 
food  he  could  find.  And  Bill  went  off  along  the  street, 
carrying  the  Gladstone  bag,  smoking  his  Gold  Flake 
cigarette  and,  judging  from  his  careless  swing,  not 
carin'  a  single  damn  for  all  them  bleedin'  furriners.  .  .  . 
I  write  the  words  that  P.  O.  Hawkins  no  doubt  thought. 
....  And,  be  it  noted.  Bill  'Awkins  spoke  no  other 
language  but  his  native  tongue,  and  that  un-purely. 
But  that  did  not  worry  him.  "  Wot  th'  British  Tommy 
cawn't  do,"  said  Bill  to  me  one  day,  "  ain't  worth  doin'." 
....  So  we  trusted  to  this  orderly,  and  we  looked  for- 
ward to  fresh  meat  for  some  days  to  come. 

We  left  the  cafe  at  three  o'clock  and  walked  a  little  in 
the  town.  At  four  we  went  back  to  the  Square  again 
and  there  was  Bill,  mounting  guard  over  his  Gladstone 
bag,  smoking  his  Gold  Flake  cigarette,  telling  his  news 
to  those  English  residents  of  the  town,  and  admired  by 
a  following  of  small  Roumanian  boys  whom  he  kept 
telling  to  blank  off.  .  .  .  Bill's  officer  told  him  to  go  and 
fetch  a  cab.  And  Bill  went  off  and  came  back  seated 
in  a  two-horsed  landaulette  which  an  excited  townsman 
had  apparently  hired  first,  but  which  Bill  somehow  had 
commandeered.  We  got  inside  and  Bill  got  on  the  box, 
much  to  the  wonder  of  the  grey-bearded  driver.  Bill 
kept  up  a  steady  flow  of  conversation  during  our  brief 
journey  to  the  quay. 

"  Nah,  then,"  said  Bill  as  we  set  off,  "  you  drive  'em 
an'  I'll  w'ip  'em  up." 

The  driver  answered  in  Roumanian. 

"  'ave  it  yer  own  wye,"  said  Bill,  in  a  grieved  tone. 
"  I  fought  yer  was  a  pal." 


94      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

The  candid  critic  of  the  Times  who  objected,  in  a  book 
review,  to  the  sketches  of  Captain  Bairnsfather  and  to 
the  language  that  the  Bairnsfather  type  used,  will 
pardon  me.  ...  I  do  not  say  that  Bill  was  typical  of 
all  the  British  soldier  men,  but  he  was  typical  of  a  class, 
and  I  write  the  words  he  used  and  I  try  to  spell  them  as 
they  were  pronounced.  .  .  . 

We  drove  down  the  hilly  street  towards  the  quay. 
The  horses  went  very  slowly. 

"  Put  'em  in  second,"  said  Bill,  the  motor  expert. 
And  then  he  cautioned  the  bewildered  man  about  the 
need  for  haste,  else  we  might  miss  "  th'  Bowt 
Ryce." 

The  driver,  for  his  part,  spoke  quite  a  lot  to  Bill.  .  .  . 
Some  days  later  P.  O.  Hawkins  gave  me  his  views  on 
the  art  of  conversing  with  foreigners.  I  had  seen  Bill 
carrying  on  a  conversation  with  a  Russian  soldier. 

"  Did  he  speak  English  ?  "  I  asked  when  the  soldier 
had  gone  away. 

"  Not  'im,"  said  Bill. 

"  Then  how  do  you  speak  to  each  other  ?  " 

"  That's  easy,  sir,"  said  Bill.  "  'E  comes  up  to  me  an' 
'e  says,  '  Ooski,  kooski  wooski  fooski.'  '  Same  to  you,' 
says  I,  '  an'  many  of  'em,  ole  cock.'  '  Bzz-z-z,  mz-zz, 
tzz-zz,'  says  'e.  '  Thenks,'  I  says,  '  another  time,  ole 
boy.  I've  just  'ad  a  couple.'  '  Tooral-ski-looral-ski, 
pooral-ski,'  'e  says.  '  Ye  down't  sye  !  '  says  I.  '  An' 
very  nice  too,'  I  says,  '  funny  fyce.' 

"''Armony,'  Bill  explained.  'No  quarrellin,'  no 
argifyin',  on'y  peace  an'  'armony.  ...  Of  course  I 
says  '  Go  to  'ell,  y'blighter,'  every  nah  an'  agyne." 

"  What  for  ?  ...  .  For  heaven's  sake,  what  for  ?  " 

Bill  looked  at  me  coldly.  "  'Ow  do  I  know  but  wot 
th'  blanker's  usin'  insultin'  woids  to  me  ?  "  he  ex- 
plained. ... 

Arrived  at  the  quay  we  went  to  make  inquiries  regard- 
ing a  tug  to  take  us  to  our  barge  again.  Bill  was  told 
to  wait  by  the  door  of  the  harbour  offices.  We  left 
him  there,  but  when  we  returned  three  minutes  later 
he  was  gone.  And  there  was  a  tug  going  off  up-stream 
at  once — and  there  might  not  be  another — and  we 
could  not  leave  Bill  on  shore  all  night. 


THE  RETREAT  ON  THE  DANUBE     95 

"  We  cannot  leave  him  here,"  his  worried  officer 
said.     "  We'll  have  to  wait  until  he  turns  up.'* 

And  my  mind  went  back  to  a  ferretting  evening  in 
Scotland  when  the  ferret  would  not  leave  the  rabbit 
hole,  and  when  we  had  to  sit  there  half  the  night  until 
he  chose  to  come  up  to  us — fearful  of  the  damage  he 
might  do  if  he  were  left  at  liberty.  .  .  . 

So  we  waited  for  two  hours.  They  were  interesting. 
The  Russian  regiments  were  marching  from  the  quay 
towards  the  town  and  then  towards  the  west.  Some 
offices  facing  the  harbour  building  were  now  staff  quar- 
ters. Men  hurried  in  and  out  with  messages.  Light 
from  the  open  door — then  darkness — and  then  a  burst 
of  light  again.  Groups  of  prisoners  with  their  escorts 
passed.  I  saw  Germans  and  Austrians  and  Bulgars 
there.  The  enemy  was  composite  in  Roumania.  A 
great  electric  standard  lamp  lit  up  the  open  space  behind 
the  harbour  offices — and  died  down  until  only  a  red 
cinder  showed — and  flared  up  again  in  jerks. 

Bill  came  at  last — a  rolling,  rollicking  Bill,  with  a 
strange  calm  at  sight  of  his  officer,  who  took  Bill's 
friend,  an  English  resident,  on  one  side  and  cursed  him 
for  having  given  Bill  strong  drink.  .  .  .  Meanwhile, 
Bill  stated  his  case  to  me. 

"  On'y  once  in  a  w'ile,"  said  Bill,  the  dis-orderly. 
"  Wot  an  'ell  o'  a  life  aht  'ere.  .  .  .  D'jer  blyme  me, 
sir  ?  ....  At  'ome  I'm  a  gen'l'man.  Wot  I  means 
ter  sye  is — Wot  I  wants  I  ^as — if  yer  annerstans  me.  .  . 
Theayters,  nah.  At  'ome  I'm  well  in  wiv  th'  managers. 
'  Two  tickets.  Bill,  for  Set'dye  night  ?  Yer  welcome  to 
'em  '....'  Tickets  for  you,  Bill  ?  ....  A  pleasure  ' 
....  I'm  a  gen'l'man  at  'ome.  .  .  .  An'  w'en  I  wants 
a  drink  I  'as  one — two  mebbe — wot's  th'  'arm  ?  .  .  .  . 
But  aht  'ere.  ...  My  Gawd  !  Wot  an  'ell  o'  a  life. 
....  That  bloke  there,  that  gen'l'man,  says  to  me, 
'  'Ave  one  ?'....  '  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  don'  min'  if  I 
do  '  .  .  .  .  An'  I  'ad  one — well,  '  Fawther,  I  cawn't  tell 
a  lie  ' — I  'ad  morn'  one.  .  .  .  Yus,  sir  !  " 

The  cold  voice  of  the  officer.  "  Have  you  the  bag 
there,  Hawkins  ?  " 

"  Yus-sir." 

"  Come  along  " — so  we  went  along  the  crowded  quay. 


96      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

in  the  dark,  and  Bill  fell  over  a  cable  and  smashed  a 
bottle  in  his  pocket— and  laughed  long  and  wildly. 
Finally  I  carried  the  Gladstone  bag  and  we  crossed  from 
ship  to  barge  and  tug  and  other  barge  until  we  reached 
the  outermost  tug  which  was  about  to  go  up-stream. 
A  most  perilous  crossing  to  our  vessel,  over  cables  and 
ropes  and  much  piled-up  cargo  on  the  various  decks. 
But  finally  we  were  there,  and  the  British  officers  and 
I  smoked  our  pipes  and  walked  up  and  down  the  deck 
to  keep  warm.  .  .  .  We  were  well  on  our  way  and  Bill 
had  disappeared  again,  when  suddenly  the  door  of  a 
warm-lit  cabin  opened  and  in  the  cosiness  of  the  little 
room  sat  Bill.  Only  a  second's  view  of  him — but  it 
was  quite  enough.  He  sat  as  the  honoured  and  admired 
guest  of  the  tug's  crew.  His  hat  was  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  half-smoked  Gold  Flake  was  behind  his  ear, 
and  in  front  of  him  was  a  steaming  glass  of  tea.  .  .  . 
And  we  were  in  the  cold  night  air. 

The  river  was  very  smooth — perhaps  owing  to  the 
mass  of  oil  that  had  been  drained  into  it  to  disappoint 
the  enemy.  A  swift-running  river,  very  black  and  very 
quiet,  with  tug  lights  of  green  and  red  and  yellow  lying 
on  its  surface.  Veiling  the  banks,  a  December  mist 
through  which  we  saw  the  blurred  lights  of  the  shore 
lamps.  We  found  our  barge  by  hailing  every  one  we 
saw  at  anchor  until  we  got  the  answer  we  required. 
Then  we  shouted  for  Bill,  and  Bill  came  leisurely  from 
the  warm  cabin,  shaking  hands  with  his  hosts. 

"  Any  time  y'r  passin'  drop  in  an'  see  us,"  Bill  said. 

The  Roumanians  spoke  Roumanian.  .  .  . 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Bill.  "  A  pleasure.  .  .  .  Goo'bye, 
ole  bird.  .  .  .  Goo'bye.  ..." 

The  art  of  conversing  with  foreigners  !  .  .  .  . 

We  climbed  on  board  Barge  No.  620,  and  stumbled 
along  the  deck,  then  down  the  steep  steps  to  the  cabin 
in  the  stern.  There  we  viewed  Bill  'Awkin's  purchases. 
Some  lumps  of  mutton  and  two  bottles  of  native  cham- 
pagne !  Meantime,  Bill  had  gone  down  to  his  own 
quarters  in  the  hold.  Three  other  men  helped  him  along 
the  deck  when  he  wished  to  come  to  us. 

Bill's  voice  from  the  deck  :  "I  pyde  for  th'  booze  an' 
I  'ad  my  pick,  but  that  bloody  rope  did  me  ".  .  .  .  and 
then  Bill  came  tumbling  down  the  stairs,  hit  against  a 


THE  RETREAT  ON  THE  DANUBE     97 

table,  upset  the  dishes  on  it,  smiled  sheepishly  and 
ventured  the  remark  that  it  was  a  rough  night  at  sea. 
He  took  some  mutton  chops  and  went  off  to  the  men's 
hold  to  cook  them  for  his  master  and  me.  They  came 
steaming  hotly  and  smelling  most  temptingly  after  the 
many  days  of  bully  beef  served  cold. 

"  Now,"   said  Bill's  officer  to  me,   referring  to  the 

other  officers  in  the  cabin,   "  that  makes  Mr.  's 

mouth  water." 

"  And  Mr. 's  also,"  said  I. 

"  Yus,"  said  Bill,  in  the  most  friendly  way,  "  an'  all 
th'  men  dahn  th'  'old's  mowf  water.  .  .  .  Champyne, 
sir  ?  " 

"No,"  said  I. 

"  Wot  ?  "  said  Bill.  "  No  wine.  ...  No  wine  on 
this  oshpishush  occyshun  ?  .  .  .  .  No  wine  ?  " 

Then  Bill  said,  "  Goo'  night,  sirs,"  and  climbed  up  to 
the  deck  again,  his  mouth  as  usual  full  of  Gold  Flake 
cigarette.  .  .   . 


H 


CHAPTER  XII 

FROM   ROUMANIA   TO   THE   FRONTIER 

We  moved  in  the  night  to  a  point  just  below  Braila 
and  there  we  were  at  anchor  once  again.  In  the  morning 
I  rowed  ashore  to  the  bank  opposite  the  town  and  walked 
there  for  a  while.  Long  dried  grass  grew  by  the  water's 
edge,  and  numerous  little  streams  ran  amongst  the 
willow  trees  further  back.  Beside  the  mouth  of  one  of 
these,  just  where  it  joined  the  main  stream,  was  a  gipsy 
encampment.  These  river  wanderers  were  Russian. 
Their  curious  canoes  were  loaded  with  their  goods. 
Some  women  and  children  sat  around  a  fire  where  a 
meal  was  being  cooked  in  a  big  black  pot,  while  the 
men  folk  lounged  against  the  trees  and  looked  on. 
Further  in,  amongst  the  shallow  streams,  women  and 
boys  were  cutting  firewood  and  loading  their  canoes 
with  it.  Half  a  verst  further  down  the  river  was  a  huge 
double  pontoon  bridge  made  of  barges  that  stood  high 
out  of  the  water.  Cavalry  and  men  on  foot  and  lines 
of  army  transports  were  crossing  to  the  north  bank. 
The  Dobruja  was  rapidly  being  abandoned. 

That  day  a  Russian  hospital  barge  was  tied  alongside 
our  one.  The  lady  doctor  in  charge  (there  are  very  many 
lady  doctors  and  surgeons  in  the  Russian  Red  Cross 
service)  gave  us  notice  that  none  of  our  men  must  go  on 
board  it. 

"  Our  men  will  do  no  harm,"  we  told  her,  smiling. 

"  I  know,"  said  she,  "  but  ours  might !  " 

There  were  thirty-two  cases  of  cholera  on  board  and 
many  others  of  typhus.  .  .  . 

We  pulled  up  our  water  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
barge  after  that,  and  it  was  very  greasy,  oily  water,  too. 


FROM  ROUMANIA  TO  THE  FRONTIER        99 

We  washed  in  it,  and  we  drank  it  once  it  had  been  boiled, 
and  with  it  we  did  our  cooking.  The  men,  none  of 
whom  except  P.O.  Hawkins  had  been  on  shore,  were 
wonderfully  cheerful.  They  sang  harmoniously  in  the 
hold,  while  in  the  intervals  of  song  the  musician  on  the 
deck  sat  on  a  pile  of  motor  tyres  and  played  a  selection 
which  varied  from  tunes  classical  to  tunes  of  modern 
vaudeville.  Also  a  wailing  voice  sang  a  song  of  the 
long,  long,  pre-ragtime  days — "Bryke  th'  news  to 
muvver. ..." 

"  The  naval  influence,"  said  an  officer  to  me.  "  Soldiers 
sing  fairly  lively  songs,  but  your  average  sailorman  in 
song  is  very  weepy.  All  his  songs,  especially  if  he  has 
had  a  drink  or  two,  are  of  the  '  Break  the  news  to  mother ' 
order." 

And  I  could  not  help  remarking,  as  I  had  done  before, 
the  difference  between  the  Russian  and  the  English 
soldiers'  songs.  The  former  stirring  songs  and  choruses, 
or  quiet,  prayer-like  solos  and  loud-sung  refrains  like 
anthems  of  praise,  or  softly  sung  love  songs  of  "  Little 
Russia " — such  charming  folk  songs,  too.  .  .  .  And 
our  English — oh  !  very  cheerful  and  all  that ! — "  Here 
we  are  " — three  times  "  again  "  :  "  Bryke  th'  news  to 
muvver  "  ;  and  a  song  whose  name  I  do  not  know  but 
of  which,  unfortunately,  these  two  lines  still  remain 
in  my  mind  : 

**  The  only  beer  he  ever  liked  to  drink 
Was  the  beer  that  someone  else  had  paid  for." 

Next  to  love,  I  suppose  that  beer  is  the  most  frequent 
theme  of  English  popular  song,  just  as  next  to  love  it  is 
the  most  frequent  cause  of  outbreak. 

Shall  I  tell  you  the  songs  these  British  men  sang  on 
the  barge  ?  .  .  .  Then  you  must  "  excuse  language." 

The  favourite  song  sung  by  the  men  was  one  written 
by  one  of  themselves  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Church's  One 
Foundation."  The  first  time  I  heard  this  song  was  on 
the  journey  from  Kars  to  Tiflis.  We  had  stopped  at 
a  station.  I  heard  the  harmony  of  the  tune,  but  not 
the  words.  The  British  Chaplain  in  the  Caucasus  was 
with  me  at  the  time.  I  remarked  on  the  good  singing. 
We  went  nearer  to  the  singers.  .  .  . 

H  2 


100    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Here  are  the  words  that  the  men  sang  solemnly  : 

"  We  are  Fred  Karno's  Navy, 
The  British  rag-time  Cars, 
We  cannot  fight  :    we  cannot  sight  : 
What  bloody  use  are  we  ? 
And  when  we  get  to  Berlin, 
The  Kaiser  he  will  say, 
'  Hoch,  hoch,  mein  Gott, 
What  a  bloody  rotten  lot 
The  Brit-ish— Rag-time— Cars." 

Then  they  sang  in  place  of  "  Amen  " — "  Neech-ev-oh  " 
— the  Russian  soldier's  word  for  every  occasion  ("  It's 
nothing,"  "  It  doesn't  matter,"  "  Never  mind,"  etc.), 
which  the  British  men  had  soon  learnt. 

This  parodying  of  hymns  was  much  in  vogue.  Another 
song,  sung  to  the  tune  of  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,"  was  : 

"  Marching,  marching,  marching, 
Always  bloody  well  marching. 
Marching  up  the  moiintain. 
Then  march-ing — down — again." 

And  yet  another  : 

"  Locker -Lampson  loves  us, 
Locker-Lampson  loves  us, 
Locker-Lampson  loves  us — 
And  so  he  bloody  well  ought." 

The  tunes  that  children  sing  at  play  had  new  words 
to  them.  I  cannot  recall  the  original  words.  The 
tunes  I  know  well  enough,  but  I  cannot  write  them  here. 
The  words  the  men  sang  were  these  : 

"  We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies. 
We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies, 
We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies — 
We've  got  no  "  dingi '  left." 

("  Dingi  "  is  the  Russian  word  for  "  Money  "). 
Then  a  second  verse  : 

'*  We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies, 
We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies, 
We  cannot  ride  in  drozhkies — 
We'll  have  to  bloody  well  walk." 


FROM  ROUMANIA  TO  THE  FRONtlkR     101 

Another  children's  tune  had  the  following  words  to 
it — also  the  composition  of  the  force's  poet : 

"  Why  did  I  join  the  R.N.A.S.  ? 
Why  didn't  I  join  the  army  ? 
Why  did  I  come  to  Russia  ? — 
I  must  have  been  bloody  well  barmy." 

Sometimes  a  plaintive  voice  would  sing  a  verse  of 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  as  a  solo.  ..."  There  snow 
ply  sly  comb  "...  and  all  the  men  would  shout  a 
sort  of  auxiliary  chorus  : 

"  An'  I  down't  suppowse  we'll  see  it  agyne 
For  months  an'  months  an'  months.  .  .  ." 

And  there  were  other  songs.  .  .  .  Alas  !  even  for  the 
sake  of  realism,  I  cannot  write  them  down.  .  .  . 

And  the  Russian  soldiers'  songs.  .  .  .  May  I  digress 
to  tell  you  of  them  here  ? 

At  six  o'clock  one  morning  in  February,  1917  (I  had 
been  on  duty  all  night),  I  saw  a  regiment  of  men  trudging 
through  the  snow  across  the  plain.  It  was  bitterly  cold 
— over  twenty-five  degrees  of  frost.  The  men  were 
warmly  clad  but  their  faces  were  exposed.  Many  of 
them  were  black  with  the  frost.  Their  lips  were  sagging 
down.  Trickles  of  blood  were  frozen  on  their  chins.  .  .  . 
A  terrible  sight,  these  bundled-up  men  with  the  frozen 
faces  at  six  o'clock  on  a  winter  morning.  But  the  men 
were  singing  loudly  as  they  marched.  I  could  not  dis- 
tinguish the  words.  I  asked  the  officer  with  me  what 
they  were.  He  told  me.  ...  In  Russian  they  were 
these  : 

"  Masha  po  lesu  khodilla 
Chubareeki  poteralla 
Chubaree — chubaree — 
Chubareeki  chu — 
Poteralla." 

Here  is  the  translation  : 

"  Masha  in  the  forest  went 
And  lost  her  sandals." 

"  Chubareeki "  is  a  '  Little  Russian '  word  for  the 
sandals,  the  "  lapti  "  made  of  birch  fibre  whichl  the 
Russian  peasants  wear.  .  .  .  That  is  the  whole  song  they 
sang — '  Masha  in  the  forest  went  and  lost  her  sandals  !  " 


102    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

There    was    something    rousing    in    the    tune.     I    had 
expected  to  hear  martial  words.     A  Httle  song  of  Masha. 

This  set  me  asking  questions.  Once  I  wrote  that 
the  Russian  soldiers'  songs  were  impressive.  A  verse 
sung  softly  by  one  man,  then  a  loudly  sung  chorus  by 
all  the  men  together.  ...  I  wrote  that  the  verses  were 
as  quiet  prayers,  the  loud-sung  choruses  as  anthems  of 
praise.  I  judged  at  that  time  entirely  by  the  tunes. 
There  was  nothing  vaudevilly  about  them.  They 
were  very  stirring,  were  these  choruses.  Alas  !  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I  am  an  idealist.  I  imagined  words  to  fit  the 
music.  .  .  .  Now  that  I  know  the  words  of  some  of  the 
favourite  marching  songs  of  the  Russian  men,  the  idea 
of  prayers  and  anthems  has  gone.  But  the  simplicity 
of  the  songs  impresses  one.  The  words  are  just  what 
these  simple  peasant  men  would  sing.  .  .  . 

Here  is  the  quiet-sung  verse  of  one  song  that  I  have 
often  heard  the  Russian  soldiers  sing  when  marching 
to  the  trenches  : 

"  Zavae-ala  zamela 
Nas  kholodnia  zema." 

"  Then  cold  winter  began  to  blow 
And  the  snow  began  to  drift." 

Then  came  the  stirring  chorus  sung  by  all  the  men  ; 

"  Solovei,  Solovei,  P'tashetchka, 
Solovei,  Paesinku  Pyot,  Pyot,  Pyot." 

"The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  is  a  little  bird. 
The  nightingale  sings  a  little  song." 

Then  : 

*'  Ras — Dva — 
Gori  ne  Baeda 

Solovei-ushka  Paesinku  Pyot." 
'*  One — two — 
Sorrow  is  no  harm. 
The  little  nightingale  sings  a  little  song." 

("  Solovei-ushka  "  is  the  diminutive  of  "  solovei  "  and 
shows  affection.) 

These  are  other  verses  : 

**  Ne  Proyekhat  ne  proitee, 
Ne  konika  Provistee." 

"  One  cannot  ride,  one  cannot  walk, 
The  little  horse  cannot  pass." 


FROM  ROUMANIA  TO  THE  FRONTIER      103 

And  the  chorus  is  sometimes  varied  thus  : 

"Solovei,  Solovei,  P'tashetchka, 
Kanareitchka  zhalobna  Pyot,  Pyot,  Pyot. 

Ras,  dva, 

Gori  ne  Baeda 
Kanareitchka  zhalobna  pyot." 

'*  The  nightingale,  the  nightingale  is  a  little  bird. 
The  little  canary  plaintively  sings,  sings,  sings. 

One,  two, 

Sorrow  is  no  harm. 
The  little  canary  plaintively  sings.'* 

And  songs  of  love.  .  .  .  This  is  one  : 

*'  Tree  Derevni,  dva  sela, 
Vosem  devok  odine  ya, 
Koodah  devki,  toodah  ya. 
Devki  v'less  ya  za  neemee 
Devki  s'lesso  ee  ya  s'neemee 
Razgo  varivay  a. ' ' 

"  Three  hamlets,  two  villages. 

Eight  girls,  I  only, 

Where  the  girls  go,  there  go  I. 
Girls  in  the  woods,  I  go  with  them. 
Girls  out  of  the  woods,  I  go  with  them. 

We  converse." 

The  men  sing  the  last  line — "  Razgova-a-ar-i-va-ya." 
There  is  a  longer  song  about  "  Donnia  "  : 

*'  In  the  smithy  the  young  blacksmiths 
Work  and  sing  : 

'  Come  along,  come  along,  Donnia, 
Come  along,  come  along,  Donnia, 
Come  along,  Donnia,  in  the  forest, 
Come  along,  Donnia,  in  the  forest.'  " 

and  many  verses  in   which  the  lover  buys  for  Donnia 
a  sarafan  (gown  without  sleeves)  for  the  fete.  .  .  . 

But  the  favourite  song  of  all  the  Russian  men,  the 
one  heard  most  on  the  Russian  Front,  and,  indeed 
throughout  all  Russia,  is  the  song  of  "  Stenka  Reizin." 
Stenka — the  English  is  "  Steve  " — was  a  Don  Cossack 
brigand  of  the  long  ago,  and  in  some  ways  a  very  good 
fellow.  He  robbed  the  rich  that  he  might  give  money 
to  the  poor.  His  charity,  however,  was  not  sufficient 
to  cover  the  multitude  of  his  sins — so  he  was  eventually 
hanged.  The  years  have  changed  his  thefts  to  acts  of 
grace  ;  the  hangman's  noose  has  become  a  halo.  He 
is  now  a  very  popular  hero.  ...  As  the  Russian  soldiers 


104    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

sing  the  song,  there  is  something  very  sad  about  the 
tune. 

And  the  theme  ?  .  .  .  Stenka  has  been  on  a  plunder- 
ing trip  down  the  Volga  and  across  the  Caspian  to  Persia. 
He  has  returned  with  much  rich  plunder — and  a  beautiful 
Persian  princess  of  whom  his  beloved  followers  are 
jealous.  .  .  . 

On  the  broad  waves  of  the  river,  says  the  song,  from 
behind  an  island  sail  out  the  boats  of  Stenka  Reizin. 
On  the  first  sits  Stenka  embracing  the  princess,  cele- 
brating his  union  with  her.  He  is  gay — and  tipsy. 
From  behind  him  comes  the  murmur  of  his  followers — 
"  He  has  exchanged  us  for  a  woman  !  " 

"  The  stern  robber  chief  hears  that  murmur  and 
derision.  With  one  powerful  hand  he  seizes  the  body 
of  the  Persian  lady.  His  dark  brows  contract,  a  threat 
runs  on  them,  the  eyes  of  the  robber  fill  with  angry 
blood.  '  I  will  give  all  !  I  will  spare  nothing  !  .  .  . 
I  will  even  give  my  own  impetuous  head !  '  His 
powerful  voice  reaches  to  the  shore. 

"  And  she,  with  eyes  shut,  neither  alive  nor  dead, 
hears  in  silence  the  drunken  words  of  the  robber  chief  : 

'  Volga,  Volga,  native  mother, 
Volga,  Russian  river. 
Thou  hast  not  seen  the  present 
Of  the  Don  Cossack.' 

"  With  one  flourish  he  raises  the  beautiful  princess  and 
casts  her  overboard  into  the  rushing  waves.  ..." 
Stenka,  in  the  last  verse,  addresses  his  men  : 

*'  '  Whatever  quarrel  was  between  free  folk — 
Volga,  Volga,  native  mother, 
Accept  the  beautiful  woman.  ... 
Why  are  you  devils  so  low-spirited  ? 
Ach  !    thou  joker,  Filka,  dance  ! 
Sing,  brothers,  at  random 
To  the  memory  of  her  soul '  !  "  .  .  . 

In  soldiers'  songs  the  tune's  the  thing.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
the  Russian  folk  who  heard  "  We  are  Fred  Karno's 
Navy  "  were  impressed  with  the  beauty  and  solemnity 
of  the  tune.  .  .  .  And  that  brings  me  back  to  the 
British  men,  who  are  still  on  the  river  barge.  ...  It  is 
a  long  way  from  the  Volga  to  the  Danube.  .  .  . 

Again  we  moved  down-stream  at  night,  this  time  as 


FROM  ROUMANIA  TO  THE  FRONTIER      105 

far  as  Galatz.  Saturday,  December  16,  found  us 
opposite  the  town,  the  Red  Cross  barge  still  at  our  side. 
It  was  a  misty  day,  but  not  too  cold,  so  I  sat  at  one  end 
of  the  deck  and  smoked.  And  suddenly  I  heard  voices 
from  behind  a  staff  car.  The  voices  of  some  Englishmen 
with  an  Irish  brogue  every  now  and  then. 

"...  And  a  verra  good  fella  he  was.  Wan  of  the 
best." 

"  My  bloke  " — evidently  an  orderly  speaking — "  my 
bloke  ain't  wounded  yet.  I  don't  wish  'im  no  'arm — 
oh  no  ! — but  when  'e  is  wounded  I  'ope  they  kills  'im 
orf." 

"...  Ach  !   he's  not  a  bad  fella  at  awl." 

"  '  Nancy,'  I  calls  'im — an'  I  ain't  never  at  peace 
until  th'  old  lady's  in  bed." 

"  Th'  worst  o'  th'  lot's  that  mouldy-w'iskered  old 
blanker.  Blank." 

"  We  want  officer s,^^  said  another  voice.  "  We  want 
officers.  .  .  .What  have  we  here  ? — Eh-merchoors  " — 
I  spell  the  last  word  as  it  was  pronounced.  The  "  Eh  " 
was  long  drawn  out.  .  .  . 

A  man  came  along  the  deck  singing : 

"  Why  did  I  join  the  R.N.A.S.  ? 
Why  didn't  I  join  the  army  ? 
Why  did  I  come  to  Roumania  ?  " 

Then  all  together  shouted  the  concluding  line  so  that  the 
sudden  burst  of  sound  was  startling  : 

"  We  must  have  been  bloody  well  barmy  !  " 

Galatz.  .  .  .  Great  warehouses  and  huge  reservoirs 
of  oil  at  the  water's  edge.  Like  Braila  it  must  have 
been  a  very  prosperous  town  before  the  war.  Enormous 
lighters  lay  along  the  north  bank.  As  large  as  small 
ships,  are  these  Danube  barges.  Some  had  Russian 
names  and  some  Roumanian,  and  very  many  were 
Greek  owned  and  Greek  named.  Russian  gun-boats 
hurried  up  the  stream,  and  small  river  steamers  packed 
with  refugees  went  quickly  down  towards  Reni,  helped 
by  the  swiftness  of  the  strong  current.  Barges,  too, 
went  down-stream,  loaded  with  army  wagons  and 
artillery  and  horses  and  machinery  taken  from  the 
towns  and  factories  in  the  wake  of  our  retreat.     Some 


106    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

barges  loaded  with  Russian  soldiers  went  up  the  river. 
.  .  .  The  Dobruja  had  been  manned  almost  entirely 
with  Russians,  and  now  Russia  was  taking  up  a  line 
north  of  the  river,  west  of  Braila.  Russian  soldiers 
were  in  evidence  everywhere  ;  one  saw  surprisingly  few 
Roumanian  men.  .  .  . 

Lunch-time,  and  our  orderly,  not  Hawkins,  brought 
me  bully  beef  and  biscuits. 

"  Sorry,  sir,"  he  said  apologetically,  "  only  bully  to- 
day." 

"  Only  bully "  had  been  for  many  days  with  the 
exception  of  Hawkins'  mutton  chops. 

"  Listen,"  said  I.  "  Now  be  honest — What  do  you 
orderlies  eat  while  your  officers  have  corned  beef  and 
biscuits  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I'll  tell  the  truth.  Pancykes 
and  rissoles.  .  .  .  I'm  a  good  cook,  I  am.  Very  nice 
rissoles  I  can  make.  An'  a  tin  o'  milk  an'  a  tin  o'  jam 
are  Al  for  pancykes.  Believe  me,  sir,  very  good 
pancykes." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  I. 

"  We  laugh,  sir,"  he  told  me  without  shame,  "  when 

we  give  cold  bully  an'  biscuits  to  our  bio to  our 

officers,  and  then  go  away  an'  cook  a  tasty  meal  on  the 
'  Primus  '  .  .  .  Do  you  blame  us,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I.  "  Just  be  a  good  fellow  and 
go  off  and  make  me  some  rissoles  and  a  pancake  for 
lunch  and  then  I'll  tell  you." 

And  half  an  hour  later  I  assured  him — which  I  had  no 
right  to  do — that  I  did  not  blame  him  in  the  least.  .  .  . 

Oh !  those  Danube  days  !  .  .  .  The  muddy,  oily 
stream  ;  the  marshy  banks  ;  the  craft  upon  the  river's 
breast.  .  .  .  The  morning  mist  that  shrouded  us  all 
day  ;  the  foggy  river  air  at  night.  The  days  of  sun- 
shine and  the  evenings  of  glorious  sunset.  Golden  sun, 
and  sky  of  cinnamon — then  purple  plum — and  then  the 
blueness  of  the  night.  .  .  .  The  dampness  and  the 
gloominess  and  the  cheerlessness  of  the  little  smelly 
stern  cabin.  The  cackling  geese,  the  grunting  pigs, 
the  barking  dogs  upon  our  barge.  .  .  .  The  morning 
wash  upon  the  slippery  deck  ;  the  morning  mug  of 
Danube  water  tea  ;  the  daily  bully  beef  and  hard  ship's 
biscuits. 


FROM  ROUMANIA  TO  THE  FRONTIER      107 

Oh  !  those  Danube  days  !  .  .  .  The  tiresome  in- 
activity when  all  the  stream  was  active.  The  want 
of  news  when  history  was  being  made  within  a  dozen 
miles.  The  optimistic  and  the  pessimistic  hours.  The 
weariness  of  a  drear  retreat ;  the  uncertainty  of  the 
future  days.  .  .  .  The  splashing  of  the  stream  all  day 
and  night,  and  the  queer  gurglings  underneath  the 
floor  when  at  last  one  lay  down  to  sleep.  And  those 
cheerful  men  in  the  rat-and-lice-infested  hold — where 
the  larger  vermin  even  invaded  the  men's  sleeping  bunks 
and  the  smaller  ones  had  to  be  carefully  picked  from 
clothing  twice  a  day. 

Oh  !  those  Danube  days  !  .  .  .  "  Blue  Danube  " 
of  one's  ball-room  thoughts.  "  Blue  Danube  "  that  one 
dreamt  of  in  the  long  ago  when  lights  were  bright 
and  when  laughter  and  gaiety  were  on  every  side. 
"  Blue  Danube " — and  a  dirty  greasy  barge.  .  .  . 
"  Blue  Danube "  with  its  breast  covered  with  oil 
inch  deep ;  with  its  towns  that  we  were  leaving 
far  behind ;  with  its  river  traffic  making  for  the 
sea.  .  .  . 

A  tug  came  in  the  evening  and  towed  us  down  the 
stream.  The  bargee  and  his  mate  and  all  the  English 
officers  were  not  on  board.  An  anxious  wife  was 
worried  —  but  the  British  men  had  not  a  single 
care.  .  .  . 

A  burly  naval  policeman  came  along  the  deck. 

"  Mr. ,  sir  ?  "  said  he. 

"  On  shore,"  I  said. 

"  Mr.  ,  sir  ?  " 

"  Also  not  at  home." 

"  Mr. ,  sir  ?  " 

"  Missing,"  said  I.     "  So  are  they  all." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  he  said.  Then,  accepting  the 
evitable,  "  Prisoners  all  turned  in,  sir.  ...  No  com- 
plaints." 

"  Thanks,"  said  I. 

And  so,  really,  for  a  day  I  was  captain  of  His  Britannic 
Majesty's  Roumanian  Barge,  No.  620. 

We  came  to  Reni  when  the  sun  had  sunk,  when  all 
the  steamer  lamps  were  lit,  when  yellow  lights  shone 


108    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

from  the  busy  shore,  when  camp  fires  burned  upon  the 
ground  above  the  quay.  .  .  .  Barges  and  tugs  and 
steamers  all  were  gathered  there.  It  was  a  stopping- 
place  upon  the  way  to  sea.  And  there  the  British 
officers  all  came  on  board.  They  had  travelled  in  an 
earlier  steamer  down  the  stream. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RENI  TO   PETROGRAD 

Reni  is  Russian.  It  is  the  frontier  town.  The 
settlement  itself  lies  north  and  east  of  the  railway  station. 
Low,  one-storied  houses  for  the  most  part,  and  very 
dirty  little  shops.  Down  by  the  river  is  a  narrow  quay 
backed  by  steep  cliffs  of  sand.  Above  these,  on  the 
plateau  that  runs  up  to  the  railway  lines,  there  was  a 
Russian  soldiers'  camp.  It  was  the  same  as  all  the  other 
Russian  camps  I  have  seen — wagons  and  horses,  and 
hay  in  bales  and  corn  in  leaking  sacks,  and  untidy  heaps 
of  other  stores.  Men  resting  on  the  damp  ground. 
Soldiers'  washing  hanging  up  to  dry — it  is  always 
washing  day  in  camp.  A  narrow  muddy  cutting  ran 
from  the  quay  to  a  level  crossing  by  which  one  reached 
the  main  road  that  led  eastwards  to  the  station  and  the 
town. 

West  of  the  camp,  between  the  river  and  the  railway 
line,  there  was  a  pleasure  garden,  a  bare  untidy  place 
with  muddy  narrow  paths.  Some  brightly-painted 
wooden  buildings,  at  right  angles  to  the  river,  faced  the 
garden  from  the  west.  Before  Roumania  entered  into 
war  these  were  probably  tea  houses  and  pavilions. 
They  were  now  the  offices  and  staff  quarters  of  the 
Russian  Naval  men  on  Danube  service.  In  the  centre 
of  the  garden  were  a  couple  of  eagles  in  a  large  dirty 
cage.  Moulting  eagles,  very  bare  in  places,  with  looks 
of  utter  weariness  and  sorrow.  Their  talons  were  red 
with  the  blood  of  their  raw  meat  allowance  ;  their 
breasts  and  the  cage  wall  too  were  stained.  A  coloured 
photograph  of  them  would  have  made  an  excellent  war 
cartoon.  .  .  . 

109 


110    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Tied  to  the  quay  were  many  river  lighters,  two  large 
passenger  steamers  and  some  smaller  river  boats.  Other 
barges  were  tied  up  to  the  ones  next  the  shore  and  still 
other  barges  to  these,  so  that  they  lay  in  layers  three  and 
even  four  deep.  But  the  edge  of  the  river  was  so 
shallow  that  the  barges  could  not  come  close  up.  Gang- 
ways had  to  be  made  with  planks  from  the  quay  to  the 
decks.  Most  of  the  barges  that  had  come  down-stream 
were  loaded  with  army  wagons,  artillery  and  stores. 
These  were  landed  at  Reni ;  the  empty  barges  were 
loaded  with  machinery  and  wood  and  iron  brought 
earlier  from  evacuated  Roumanian  towns.  Later  they 
would  go  down-stream  towards  the  Black  Sea.  Hundreds 
of  Austrian  prisoners  of  war  were  working  as  lighter- 
men. One  saw  Austrian  prisoners  on  the  quay  and  at 
the  station  and  in  the  town,  walking  about  without  any 
escort.  The  men,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  more  liberty 
than  the  Russian  soldiers  had. 

On  the  quay,  at  the  foot  of  the  sand  cliffs,  a  row  of 
women  was  selling  white  bread  and  pancakes  and  sun- 
flower seed  and  other  luxuries.  Babushka  and  Tyotha 
— "  Grandmamma  and  Auntie  " — the  same  old  firm 
that  one  sees  at  every  railway  station  and  barrack  town 
throughout  Russia.  But  I  had  not  before  seen  British 
soldiers  bargaining  for  the  women's  wares.  The  cus- 
tomers were  very  mixed.  Russian  soldiers  and  sailors, 
British  naval  armoured  car  men,  Austrian  prisoners 
and  Roumanian  soldiers  and  refugees.  .  .  .  Then  ar- 
rived a  party  of  British  refugees.  They  were  chiefly 
managers  and  engineers  of  oil  wells  and  their  wives  and 
families.  They  stood  apart  from  the  others.  These 
were  the  first  British  refugees  I  had  seen.  I  think  they 
must  have  found  comfort  in  the  presence  of  the  cheerful 
British  soldiers. 

The  unloading  of  the  British  squadron's  barges  (an 
earlier  one  had  preceded  No.  620  from  Hirsova)  com- 
menced. Again  the  men  ran  about  like  ants — carrying 
big  tins  of  biscuits  one  at  a  time  ;  boxes  of  bully  beef 
and  stores.  The  cars  were  taken  off  the  barges  and 
stationed  on  the  quay,  thus  making  it  more  narrow  than 
ever  and  making  traffic  very  difficult.  The  men's  kit- 
bags  were  also  stacked  on  the  quay  in  a  line  parallel  to 
the  river.     Opposite  them  was  a  heap  of  sundry  stores 


RENI  TO  PETROGRAD  111 

and  some  very  smelly  bullock  skins  (leather  was  very 
valuable  in  Russia).  A  couple  of  British  sentries  walked 
in  the  narrow  space  between.  Passing  Russian  soldiers 
watched  the  British  men  at  work.  They  had  never  seen 
British  soldiers  before.  Naturally  they  were  curious. 
They  noted  the  excellence  of  the  men's  clothes  and  boots. 
I  heard  some  Russians  marvelling  on  the  strangeness  of 
British  men — all  of  whom  were  clean-shaven.  "  No 
Englishman  has  any  hair  on  his  face,"  said  one 
authority. 

Sometimes  the  Russians  were  puzzled  as  to  the 
nationality  of  the  strange  soldiers  in  khaki. 

"  Roumanski  ?  "  they  asked  each  other.  Or  "  Serb- 
ski  ?  "  .  .  .  I  saw  some  Russian  soldiers  stiffly  saluting 
the  British  men,  feeling  sure  that  they  must  be  officers. 

Monday,  the  18th,  was  quiet.  Many  of  the  barges 
had  gone  down-stream.  A  large  number  of  Russian 
soldiers  had  also  proceeded  up  the  river.  We  had 
nothing  to  do  all  day — but  wait.  In  the  evening  I 
overheard  another  conversation  between  two  of  the 
British  men.  They  were  sitting  on  the  deck  of  the 
barge  where  we  still  lived.  One  of  them  was  reading  an 
English  newspaper  at  least  three  months  old. 

"  'Ow  about  this,  Fred  ?  "  said  he,  reading  aloud. 
"  '  Palladium.  Always  th'  best  variety  entertainment 
in  London.  Three  performances  daily — 2.30,  6.10  an' 
9  '  .  .  .  Wot's  th'  time,  Fred  ?  .  .  .  A  bite  o'  food  an' 
a  pint  an'  then  th'  third  'ouse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  shut  up  !  "  came  the  voice  of  Fred.  "  'Ave 
some  bloody  decency  !  " 

The  other  man  read  the  list  of  performers.  Then, 
"  Jack  !  "  he  called.     "  'Ere,  Jack  !  " 

Jack  came  along  smoking  a  briar  pipe.  "  'Ello  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  'Ow  about  it.  Jack  ?  .  .  .  Palladium.  Three  per- 
formances daily— 2.30,  6.10  an'  9.  .  .  .  'Ow  about  th' 
nine  o'clock  'ouse  ?  " 

"  Go  to  'ell !  "  said  Jack  severely,  and  he  went  off 
along  the  deck  again  puffing  hard  at  his  pipe. 

"  'Answers  to  Correspondents,'  "  said  the  reader  a 
few  minutes  later.  "  Listen  to  this,  Fred.  Wot  a 
bloody  scream  !  .  .  .  '  H.M.T.  .  .  .  You  must  be  very 


112      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

careful  to  avoid  catching  cold  in  these  chilly  autumn 
nights.'  " 

"  Wot's  it  this  time  ?  "  interrupted  Fred.  "  Always 
drink  Oxo  '  or  not  ?   .  .  .  I  know  th'  gyme." 

"  Straight,  this  is,"  said  the  man  with  the  paper. 
"  '  Always  wear  a  warm  overcoat  when  you  go  out '  " 

"  'Ope  Brothers,  'ope,"  interrupted  Fred. 

"  '  — an'  when  leavin'  an  'eated  room  be  sure  an'  'ave 
your  throat  well  protected  against  th'  night  air.'  " 

"  Bloody  slacker  !  "  said  Fred  contemptuously.  "  Do 
'im  good  to  be  'ere  for  a  bit." 

"  Mebbe  'e's  a  gel  ?  "  suggested  the  other. 

"  But  she  don't  wrap  up  '^r  throat,"  said  the  obser- 
vant Fred. 

Another  man  joined  the  two. 

"  Any  murders,  ole  boy  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Murders  ?  "  said  the  two. 

"  Yes — murders.  'Orrible  murders.  .  .  .  Give  us  a 
bit  o'  excitement.     This  bloody  war's  dull  enough." 

"  Nothin'  doin',"  said  the  man  with  the  paper. 
"  A  few  killin'-offs — but  that  ain't  murder.  .  .  .  '  Ere's 
somethin'  interestin'.  ..." 

And  once  again  he  cruelly  suggested  the  third  house  of 
the  Palladium.  .  .  . 

More  refugees  arrived  on  crowded  river  steamers  on 
December  19.  Amongst  them  were  several  Roumanian 
officers  with  their  women  folks.  I  met  an  Englishman 
amongst  the  new  arrivals.  He  knew  Roumania  well 
and  his  news  was  not  very  cheering.  According  to  him, 
the  Germans  in  many  places  had  met  with  practically 
no  opposition  on  their  entry  into  Roumania.  One  pass 
of  which  he  knew  was  so  narrow  that  one  or  two  machine- 
guns  could  have  checked  the  enemy.  But  this  pass, 
said  he,  had  not  been  defended  at  all.  .  .  .  There  is 
one  story  which  many  people  told.  I  do  not  write  it 
as  a  fact ;  its  truth  I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  write  of  it  to 
show  the  opinion  that  most  people  had  of  the  Rou- 
manians' action  in  the  war.  .  .  .  Some  German  soldiers, 
weary  of  war,  deserted  from  their  ranks,  meaning  to 
give  themselves  up.  They  reached  a  certain  small 
Roumanian  town,  but  the  soldiers  had  all  gone  away,  so 
the  Germans  took  possession  of  it  and  doubtless  received 
an  Iron  Cross  apiece  for  their  enterprise.  ...  I  repeat 


t^ 


RENI  TO  PETROGRAD  113 

that  I  do  not  know  how  true  this  story  was,  but  cer- 
tainly many  such  stories  were  told  and  one  was  inclined 
to  give  way  to  an  insidious  pessimism.  .  .  . 

That  same  evening  Commander  Gregory,  R.N.,  and  a 
squadron  of  fighting  cars  came  up  the  river  from  Tulsha. 
They  had  remained  at  Hirsova  until  the  last  possible 
moment,  then  the  Russian  Staff  had  given  orders  to 
them  to  retreat,  so  they  made  the  journey  across  the 
Dobruja  to  a  town  lower  down  the  river  than  Reni. 
The  roads  were  very  difficult — muddy  and  greasy,  but 
the  cars  all  arrived  safely.  The  Russians  evacuated 
Tulsha  to  take  up  a  position  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
river  soon  after  the  British  cars  had  left  for  Reni.  The 
Bulgarians  then  occupied  the  town.  Next  evening  a 
force  of  fighting  cars  left  Reni  to  go  to  Baila  by  barge. 
Lieutenant  Smiles,  who  had  just  recovered  from  shrapnel 
wounds  in  the  arm  and  leg,  went  in  charge.  The  last 
steamers  and  barges  from  Braila  and  Galatz  arrived, 
bringing  more  refugees  with  them. 

Before  the  British  armoured  cars  again  left  for  the 
position  west  of  Braila  the  men  had  been  working  in 
shifts,  loading  and  unloading  the  barges.  These  were 
then  by  this  time  all  occupied  or  partly  occupied  with 
British  cars  and  army  stores  and  men.  The  position 
near  Braila  was  such  that  the  Russian  authorities  were 
not  quite  certain  what  to  do.  .  .  .  Some  men  worked 
till  midnight  and  then  others  came  on  duty.  I  saw 
some  men  who  were  aroused  from  sleep  at  12  a.m.  to  go 
on  duty.  They  came  up  the  steps  from  the  barge's 
hold  yawning  and  grumbling. 

"  Wot  a  life  !  "  said  one  man.  "  Wot  a  life  !  .  .  . 
We  might  as  well  be  livin'  in  a  bloody  fire  station  !  " 

You  may  have  read  that  remark  in  Punch.  I  do  not 
know  !  I  only  know  that  I  sent  it  to  that  journal,  but 
whether  it  was  "  good  enough  for  Punch  "  or  not  I 
cannot  tell  at  the  moment  of  writing.  Anyhow,  the 
words  were  doubtless  modified  if  they  appeared  in  that 
highly  respectable  journal. 

On  Friday,  December  22,  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  an  excited  Roumanian  bargeman  came  to  our 
little  cabin  and  said  some  words  to  us  in  Roumanian. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  managed  to  explain  in  Russian 

I 


114      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

that  we  must  leave  at  once.  I  dressed  and  went 
on  shore  to  find  out  what  the  position  was.  Only  a 
sentry  or  two  were  to  be  seen.  But  as  I  neared  the 
Russian  naval  quarters  two  officers  came  out  and  made 
towards  a  little  steamer  near  our  barge.  I  spoke  to 
them. 

"  Oh  !  to-morrow  !  "  they  said.  "  See  us  to-morrow 
about  it." 

Then  I  met  another  official  who  told  me  that  all  the 
barges  that  were  bound  for  towns  further  down  the 
stream  must  leave  at  once,  as  the  Bulgarians  would 
probably  be  in  Tulsha  during  the  day,  and  they  would 
be  able  to  cut  off  all  retreat  by  river.  This  did  not 
concern  us  very  much,  so  I  returned  to  bed.  When  I 
rose  again  all  the  barges  except  ours  had  gone  away. 
More  men  were  encamped  on  the  plateau  that  lay  on  a 
level  with  the  railway  line.  A  number  of  guns  were  in 
position  to  command  the  river  and  the  Dobruja  bank 
of  the  Danube.  At  night  the  plateau  was  dotted  with 
camp  fires.  Trains  arrived  with  more  Russian  men  and 
guns. 

Meanwhile  the  British  squadron  did  excellent  work 
west  of  Braila.  After  trying  one  or  two  roads  which 
were  found  to  be  impossible  for  motor  car  traffic,  the 
squadron  found  a  good  road  to  Vizerul.  On  reaching 
the  position  they  immediately  went  into  action  and 
continued  to  attack  for  several  days.  Lieutenant  Smiles 
was  wounded,  but  continued  on  duty,  scorning  hospitals. 
Eventually  the  Russians  had  to  retreat  as  the  right  wing 
was  being  pushed  back.  Two  of  the  British  cars  under 
Lieutenant  Arrol-Hunter  and  Second  Lieutenant  Kidd 
were  told  off  to  cover  the  Russians'  retreat.  At  half- 
past  ten  at  night  the  cars  went  up  to  the  enemy's  lines 
and  opened  fire,  continuing  until  the  ammunition  was 
spent.  By  this  time  the  Russian  infantry  had  retreated 
successfully,  so  the  British  cars  were  able  to  return. 
Unfortunately  Second  Lieutenant  Kidd's  car  ran  into  a 
shell-hole  and  had  its  steering  gear  smashed.  Lieutenant 
Arrol-Hunter  destroyed  the  car,  took  the  crew  on  board 
his  own,  and  reached  the  Russians'  new  position  suc- 
cessfully. This  broken  motor-car  was  so  far  the  only 
one  that  the  British  Expeditionary  Force  had  lost. 
Some   days   later   Lieutenant  Smiles  again   went     into 


RENI  TO  PETROGRAD  115 

action  and  drove  the  Bulgars  out  of  a  village  so  that 
the  Russians  were  enabled  to  advance  and  occupy  it. 
The  difficulties  that  had  to  be  faced  were  very  great. 
The  roads,  where  roads  existed,  were  deep  in  mud  and 
almost  impossible  for  motor  cars.  And  the  shell-pocked 
No  Man's  Land — at  midnight,  in  the  dark  !  .  .  . 

Unfortunately  towards  the  end  of  December  I  was 
far  from  well.  I  had  pains  somewhere  in  my  left  side. 
I  know  so  little  about  my  inner  self  that  I  thought  I 
had  heart  trouble.  Perhaps  I  smoked  too  much,  I 
thought,  and  I  dreaded  the  doctor  telling  me  that  I 
must  put  my  pipe  away,  so  I  did  not  consult  him. 
I  had  slept  on  damp  floors  and  in  the  chilly  wet  cabin 
of  the  Danube  barge — so  that,  later,  when  I  summoned 
up  courage  to  consult  a  doctor  in  Petrograd  and  was 
told  that  I  had  had  pleurisy  for  five  weeks — I  marvelled. 
..."  You  are  better  now,"  said  the  doctor.  Which  I 
knew.  If  I  had  not  been  better  I  would  not  have  been 
brave  enough  to  hear  his  verdict  ! 

I  went  to  Petrograd  via  Odessa.  I  took  the  English 
mail  with  me  and  I,  who  loved  the  Censor  not,  became 
that  dreaded  much-damned  man  myself.  .  .  .  What  a 
wonderful  book  a  Censor  could  write — if  he — or  she — 
would  but  allow  it !  I  had  at  least  five  hundred  letters 
to  read — and  they  were  five  hundred  human  stories. 
Letters  of  love ;  and  letters  very  cold.  Letters  of 
longing  and  letters  of  sheer  light-heartedness.  Letters 
whose  writers  tried  to  hide  their  loneliness — but  failed  ; 
and  letters  bluntly  crude  and  almost  indifferent. 
Letters  long  and  letters  short.  I  wish  that  I  could 
print  a  score  of  them  in  full,  as  examples  of  the 
others. 

"  Dear  Mate,"  some  man  wrote  to  his  wife,  "  I'm  in 
the  pink.  You  might  send  me  some  Gold  Flake  cigar- 
ettes and  some  insect  powder.     Yours "  and    then 

the  Christian  name.     And  that  was  all. 

Some  others  wrote  letters  of  great  length  with  des- 
criptions of  scenery  and  war  ;  with  humour  and  pathos 
intermixed  ;  with  not  a  word  about  the  things  that  they 
would  like  to  have  from  home.  Some  men  who  had  no 
time  to  write  two  notes  wrote  to  their  mothers,  sending 
messages  to  their  wives.  .  .  .  And  all    of   these  wrote 

I  2 


116      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

as  boys  do.  .  .  .  Some  wrote  to  their  sweethearts 
urging  them  to  remain  true,  and  threatening  personal 
destruction  if  the  love  that  was  should  wane.  Others 
talked  of  marriage,  and  others  talked  only  of  the  happy 
past.  And  many,  many  were  full  of  typical  British 
grumbles — the  food,  the  hours,  the  weather,  the  lack 
of  letters  and  a  score  or  more  of  other  grievances.  Some 
wished  that  they  had  never  volunteered ;  others 
assured  the  folk  at  home  that  it  was  "  great  sport." 
And  in  one,  an  Irish  one,  I  learned  exactly  how 
the  folk  of  Erin  speak.  The  writer  spelt  the  words 
phonetically,  and  thus  I  know  that  "  girl  "  in 
Ireland  is  not  "  gerrul  "  as  some  writers  write,  but 
"  gairl." 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  merry  Xmas — I  don't  think !  " 
wrote  a  humorist.  "  I  heard  someone  say  the  other 
day  there's  a  war  on  at  present.  I  suppose  that  must 
be  the  cause  of  it."  And  he  went  on  to  write,  "  We  have 
not  mixed  our  Xmas  puddings  yet,  as  someone  has 
stolen  the  two  currants." 

What  a  wonderful  book  the  Censor  could  write — if 
he  or  she  would  but  allow  it !  ...  I  learned  of  escapades 
that  would  have  cost  the  writers  much  field  punish- 
ment if  these  outings  had  been  known  ;  of  opinions  of 
their  officers  that  fortunately  the  officers  could  not  see  : 
of  criticism  of  the  Powers  that  were  and  of  the  things 
they  should  have  done  ;  of  rumours  and  of  secret  plans 
that  were  quite  non-existent  at  the  Staff.  And  the 
stories  of  the  insect-infested,  rat-inhabited  hold  of  that 
Danube  barge  were  creepy  as  the  hold  itself  had  been. 
But  these  complaints  were  not  serious.  The  men  told  of 
the  fun  of  the  daily  "  hunts  "  and  of  the  joy  that  came 
with  the  kill.  Blackpool,  said  some  ;  Margate,  said 
others — were  not  to  be  compared  with  the  river  quarters 
they  had  had.  I  found  a  certain  amount  of  humour 
in  these  yarns.  But  I  had  found  no  humour — and  I 
find  none  now — in  the  unwelcome  guests  who  came  to 
dine.  .  .  . 

To  Petrograd  on  December  31.  That  same  night 
came  news  of  Rasputin's  death.  Many  versions  of  the 
incident  were  told.  Then  rumours  came  that  he  was 
still  alive.  .  .  .  Finally  the  Press,  which  had  referred 


RENI  TO  PETROGRAD  117 

to  the  assassination  but  had  not  dared  to  mention  the 
dead  man's  name,  stated  that  in  truth  the  bete  noir  was 
dead.     And  Russia  breathed  freely. 

We  did  not  know  so  then,  but  we  see  now  that  the 
removal  of  Rasputin  was  one  of  the  first  steps  towards 
the  day  in  March  when  the  Old  Order  ceased  to  be  and 
when  Russia  gained  the  freedom  of  which  she  had  so 
long  dreamt. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   RUSSIAN   FRONT   AGAIN 

I  HAVE  read  in  English  newspapers  that  the  Australian 
and  Canadian  soldiers  on  leave  in  London  weary  after  a 
few  days  and  long  to  go  back  to  the  front.  The  comment 
on  this  was  that  the  men  were  so  patriotic  that  they 
were  happy  only  when  fighting  to  crush  the  enemy. 
That,  bluntly,  is  rot.  No  sane  man  yearns  to  return  to 
the  position  simply  for  the  sake  of  warring  there.  (In 
parenthesis  :  the  badly  wounded  soldier  who  frets  in 
hospital  because  he  is  anxious  to  go  to  the  trenches 
again  is  not  honest  with  himself — or  he  is  a  fiction  soldier 
only.)  I  can  understand  the  feelings  of  the  Colonial 
men,  for  I  also,  in  Petrograd,  wearied  for  the  battle  zone 
again.  Not  because  I  love  it — how  can  anyone  say  he 
does  ? — but  because  it  was  to  me  the  lesser  of  two  evils. 
I  was  lost  in  Petrograd.  I  was  a  very  lonely  soldier  in 
a  very  crowded  place.  I  was  restless.  I  did  not  know 
where  to  go  or  what  to  do.  There  were  disquieting 
rumours  on  all  sides.  There  is  no  such  pessimism  at  the 
front  as  one  finds  in  the  safety  of  the  far-back  towns. 
Everybody  except  myself  had  something  to  do.  Of  all 
the  deadly  sins  that  harry  us,  the  deadliest  is  ennui. 

And,  having  written  this,  I  find  that  I  can  understand 
the  wounded  soldier,  too.  Perhaps  he  really  does  ex- 
press a  wish  to  go  back  to  the  front.  But  that  is 
because  the  hospital  ward  and  the  pain  he  suffers  are 
worse  to  him  than  the  battle  line  and  the  open  air  and 
the  health  that  once  was  his.  It  must  be  very  dull  in 
hospital  ;  no  one  can  grumble  at  the  lack  of  excitement 
in  the  Western  zone  of  fire.  But  it  is  a  morbid  wish, 
this  wish  to  so  back  to  the  front — the  morbid  wish  of  a 

^  118 


THE  RUSSIAN  FRONT  AGAIN  119 

sick  and  suffering  man.  What  he  really  wishes  is  that 
he  be  strong  and  fit  again — that  he  will  have  the  strength 
and  fitness  that  he  had  when  he  first  set  out  to  France. 
....  When  he  is  well  again,  when  he  is  able  to  leave 
the  hospital  and  go  forth  to  the  outer  world,  when  he 
is  with  his  friends  at  home — then,  I  am  sure,  he  does 
not  want  to  live  trench  life  again.  Anything  is  better 
than  boredom  and  physical  suffering — even  the  hell  of 
war.  One  has  good  company  there,  and,  to  be  candid, 
there  is  a  certain  fascination.  .  .  . 

I  wearied  for  the  battle  zone  again.  I  wearied  for 
my  friends  there,  for  a  horse,  for  a  faithful  soldier  ser- 
vant, for  the  open  spaces,  for  the  freedom — and  the 
thrill — of  the  life.  I  even  wearied  for  a  dug-out  home 
again.  .  .  .  My  charming  hosts,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur 
Thornton  of  Petrograd,  will  forgive  me.  Only  I  can 
know  how  very  kind  they  were.  Yet  I  had  lost  the  taste 
for  kindness.  The  doctor  called  my  trouble  "  neuras- 
thenia." He  ordered  me  to  go  to  a  sanatorium  for 
three  months.  "  What  you  need  is  fresh  air,  and  out- 
door exercise,  and  quiet,  and  much  sleep,"  said  he.  So 
I  went  to  Moscow  in  January — on  my  way  back  to  the 
Russian  Front.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  January  I  arrived  at  Minsk.  It  was  the 
Minsk  of  a  year  before,  with  this  difference — the  officers 
I  saw  waiting  in  the  crowded,  smoky  buffet  room  of  the 
railway  station  were  all  more  aged,  more  tired-looking, 
all  more  ill  in  appearance  than  they  had  been  when  last 
I  was  in  Minsk.  The  change  was  very  noticeable.  I 
met  men  who  knew  me,  but  I  had  difficulty  in  recognising 
them,  so  altered  were  their  faces.  The  strain,  even  of 
waiting,  doing  nothing,  had  told  on  them.  My  friends 
assured  me  I  was  stouter,  which  was  a  great  disappoint- 
ment to  me,  who  considered  myself  a  sick  man  and  who 
wanted  sympathy,  not  congratulations.  .  .  . 

The  town  was  unaltered.  The  same  confusion  in  the 
station.  The  same  lines  of  army  wagons  in  the  main 
streets.  The  same  congestion  of  traffic  underneath  the 
bridge  on  which  the  Molodetchno  railway  ran.  The 
same  clumsy  wooden  sledges,  driven  by  little  boys  or 
women  or  old  men — too  old  to  be  of  service  at  the  war. 
The  same  groups  of  soldiers  in  the  streets — the  same 


120      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

officers  muffled  up  in  fur-lined  coats  and  woollen  scarves 
and  lamb-skin  hats.  The  same  dirty  little  shops — with 
high  prices  of  what  goods  there  were,  but  with  the  same 
absence  of  commodities  of  a  year  before. 

My  train  left  for  Zamerie  at  five  o'clock  in  the  evening 
— at  least  it  was  supposed  to  leave  then,  and  we  were 
all  aboard,  but  it  was  seven  before  we  got  away.  The 
same  gloomy,  ill-lit  second-class  compartments  with  a 
single  candle  behind  a  smoke-blackened  lantern  glass  at 
each  end.  Officers  and  doctors  and  sisters.  Also 
much  baggage — and  little  conversation.  One  talks  en 
route  to  Petrograd  ;  one  does  not  speak  much  on  the  way 
to  the  position.  One  dozes — the  slow  rumble  is  a 
lullaby.  .  .  .  Zamerie  at  nine.  Very  cold — but  a  Red 
Cross  tea-room  was  fairly  comfortable.  I  had  to  wait 
seven  hours  there.  It  was  a  white-washed  room  with  a 
large  stove  at  the  two  ends.  Rough  wooden  tables  and 
benches  stood  near  the  stoves.  If  one  wanted  to  eat 
or  to  drink  tea,  one  paid  fifty  kopecks  as  admission  to  a 
table,  where  peasant  women  served  tea,  unlimited,  and 
where  one  could  have  a  meal  of  black  bread  and  cheese 
and  cold  sausage. 

I  read  an  old  copy  of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  a 
five-cent  journal  which  I  had  bought  in  Moscow  for  one 
and  sixpence.  (The  advertisements  are  most  interesting ; 
I  even  prefer  them  to  the  excellent  literary  contributions.) 
A  little  spectacled  colonel  noticed  the  journal,  and  paused 
in  his  pacing  up  and  down  the  room.  The  advertise- 
ment pages  that  I  was  glancing  at  were  printed  in  bold 
type.  Not  Russian — then  which  ?  ....  I  looked  up 
to  find  the  Colonel  staring  intently  at  me.  I  was  not 
Russian — then  what  ?  .  .  .  .  The  Colonel  was  suspicious. 
He  conferred  with  a  young  officer  in  a  corner  opposite 
me,  regarding,  I  am  sure,  me  and  my  nationality, 
because  the  two  of  them  then  commenced  to  walk  slowly 
up  and  down  the  room,  coming  near  me  and  nearer  until 
they  were  able  to  see  exactly  what  paper  I  was  reading, 
what  epaulettes  I  was  wearing,  and  what  I  looked  like 
at  close  range. 

Then  they  conferred  again,  and  the  younger  man  came 
over  to  the  stove  against  which  I  was  sitting  and  looked 
at  me  from  behind.  A  few  minutes  later  the  little 
Colonel  came  and  asked  me  if  he  might  have  the  sugar 


THE  RUSSIAN  FRONT  AGAIN  121 

which  stood  in  front  of  me.  This  in  spite  of  the  presence 
of  ample  sugar  on  the  table  at  his  side  of  the  room.  I 
answered  him  in  one  word,  "  Mozhno,"  which  means 
"  It  is  allowed."  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two  then 
lost  courage  and  went  away  to  his  own  side  of  the  room 
without  another  word.  Also  without  the  sugar,  which 
he  had  apparently  forgotten.  Later  on  he  returned  to 
my  side,  stood  at  the  stove  for  a  while,  and  ventured  to 
ask  me  to  which  station  I  was  going.  I  told  him — also 
in  one  word. 

" Division  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  after  a  pause  in  which  I  tried  to  appear 
suspicious.     "  Is  that  your  division  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  ask  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  must  not 
ask  !  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  huffed,  "  please  do  not  question 
me.  You,  also,  must  not  ask  me  where  I  am  going  or  to 
what  division  I  am  attached." 

He  glared  angrily  at  me  but  did  not  speak.  Then  he 
went  away  to  his  own  seat,  and  the  younger  man  joined 
him  for  another  conference.  Only  we  three  were  in  the 
room,  beside  two  peasant  women  who  sat  yawning  near 
the  door  that  led  to  the  kitchen,  and  a  sleeping  peasant 
boy  who  woke  up  at  intervals  to  stoke  the  stoves  with 
wood.  The  little  Colonel  wanted  very  much  to  know 
why  I,  a  foreigner,  was  there,  but  he  did  not  summon 
up  enough  courage  to  ask  me  to  show  him  my  passport. 
Several  times  he  came  towards  me,  but  always  he 
hesitated  and  finally  returned  to  his  seat.  No  one 
has  ever  asked  me  for  my  passport  on  the  Russian 
Front. 

Three  o'clock,  and  a  party  of  officers  arrived  by  road. 
They  wished  to  travel  by  train  to  Minsk.  They  would 
have  to  wait  until  our  train  came  and  went  with  us 
and  then  returned  again.  They  were  all  half  frozen  in 
spite  of  ear  muffs  and  mufflers  and  woolly  hats  and  camel 
wool  hoods  and  thick  fur-lined  coats.  They  stamped  up 
and  down  the  room,  breathing  on  their  fingers  and  rub- 
bing their  noses  and  cheeks  and  ears.  The  peasant 
women  aroused  themselves  to  get  some  glasses  of  tea. 
The  boy  left  his  corner  by  the  stove  to  collect  half  a 
rouble  from  each  man. 


122      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

I  opened  my  paper  again  and  commenced  to  read. 
More  glances  and  whispers,  then  I  heard  the  words, 
"  English  language,"  then  "  Englishman  "  ....  I  con- 
tinued to  read,  but,  without  looking  up,  I  could  see  the 
little  Colonel  join  the  group.  "  Anglaychanyin  ?  "  I 
heard  him  whisper.  "  Certainly,"  came  the  answer. 
....  So  all  was  well.  When  at  last  the  train  came  the 
little  Colonel  smiled  quite  kindly  on  me  and  told  me  that 
it  was  the  one  on  which  I  must  travel. 

This  train  was  in  total  darkness.  The  candles  had 
burned  out  and  no  one  had  troubled  to  renew  them.  I 
felt  my  way  to  a  vacant  seat,  found  one,  lay  down  on  it 
and  fell  asleep,  in  spite  of  another  later  arrival  sitting 
down  on  my  legs.  He  struck  a  match,  saw  me  and 
apologised,  and  found  another  vacant  seat.     I  arrived 

at  P in  daylight.     It  was  bitterly  cold.     A  sledge 

had  come  for  my  baggage  and  another  one  drawn  by 
three  horses  for  myself.  So  off  I  went — a  distance  of 
ten  miles. 

The  plains  had  all  been  levelled  with  the  snow.  What 
routes  there  were  from  point  to  point  were  marked  with 
fir  branches,  showing  very  black  against  the  snow. 
There  were  no  trees  ;  only  the  tops  of  little  shrubs  were 
to  be  seen.  All  the  larger  wood  had  been  cut  down  to 
supply  timber  for  bridges  and  roads  across  the  marshy 
ground  that  spring  would  expose  to  view.  .  .  .  Seven 
miles  with  only  one  cottage  and  a  barn  on  the  way. 
Then  a  grey  village  with  soldiers  at  the  wells  drawing 
water  for  their  morning  tea.  Then  across  another  plain 
where  tree  stumps  and  shrubs  showed  from  out  the 
snow.  A  wide  wood  had  once  been  here  ;  it,  too,  had 
been  cut  down  to  make  the  marshes  passable.  Past  a 
great  orchard  with  rows  and  rows  of  trees  and  so  towards 
my  new  camp.  A  dug-out  room  beneath  the  level  of 
the  ground,  well  heated  with  a  wood  stove.  There  was 
a  samovar  steaming  on  a  wooden  bench.  And  there 
was  Grigorie,  my  new  denstchik  (orderly)  to  give  me  a 
welcoming  grin. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  I. 

Grigorie  held  himself  very  stiffly. 

"  I  wish  you  health,  your  nob — your  high  nobility," 
he  shouted,  a  little  uncertain  of  my  rank  and  anxious 
to  err  safely. 


THE  RUSSIAN  FRONT  AGAIN  123 

"  Cold,"  said  I. 

"  Precisely  so,  your  high  nobility,  cold  ;  freezing  ; 
north  wind,"  and  he  told  me  particulars  of  it  in 
a  thin  voice.  I  did  not  understand  them  all. 
Enough  to  know  the  main  fact — twenty-five  degrees 
of  frost. 

Grigorie  ....  I  will  tell  you  about  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Grigorie 

Grigorie  is  my  denstchik — my  orderly — and  if  there 
is  a  more  homely-looking  man  in  all  the  Russian  Army, 
I  do  not  want  to  see  him.  When  I  write  "  homely," 
I  write  in  the  diminutive.  Grigorie  is  not — to  use  a 
common  phrase — an  oil-painting.  ...  I  can  describe 
beauty  with  a  certain  amount  of  ease,  because  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  do  so  ;  but  to  describe  Grigorie  is  indeed 
difficult — I  hate  to  weigh  his  features  one  by  one  and 
find  them  wanting.  Bad  enough  to  know  that  the 
tout  ensemble  is  unlovely  ;  one  hesitates  to  think  of 
details.  Still — you  must  see  him  as  I  do — so  here 
goes !  .  .  . 

This  orderly  of  mine  is  a  huge  fellow,  tall  and  stout 
and  strong.  Not  too  stout ;  stocky,  I  think,  is  the 
word  I  may  write.  There  is  nothing  particularly  the 
matter  with  his  figure  ;  it  is  simply  all  wrong.  An 
absence  of  line,  though  not  of  symmetry.  You  will 
understand  me  if  I  say  he  is  a  barge  of  a  man  and  not  a 
schooner.  .  .  .  Enormous  hands.  The  right  one  has 
two  fingers  missing.  A  German  bullet  shattered  them. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  he  is  an  orderly  and  now  no 
longer  needs  to  fight.  Three-fingered  men  are  awkward 
with  their  rifles.  .  .  .  He  has  a  big  roundish  head,  clean 
shaven.  Two  ugly  scars  run  across  the  top.  More 
German  bullets.  And  now  his  face.  .  .  .  He  has  the 
sort  of  face  that  might  belong  to  a  very  young  man  or  to 
a  very  old  one.  A  wrinkled,  brown-skinned  face  that 
still  has  the  smoothness  of  youth  on  it.  One  reads  that 
youthful  sign  between  the  lines.  At  twenty  yards  he 
might  be  clean-shaven.     Seen  close  to,  one  notices  a 

124 


GRIGORIE  125 

patchy  unshaven  chin  with  thin,  straggly  reddish  hair 
upon  it ;  also  a  pale  coloured,  uneven  moustache.  High 
cheek-bones  and  tiny  grey  eyes — all  of  Mongol  shape. 
He  comes  from  some  far  corner  of  Siberia.  I  am  sure 
there  is  some  Chinese  blood  in  his  veins.  ...  A  broad, 
squat  nose  and  a  mouth  of  broken  teeth — all  colours 
except  the  colour  they  should  be.  ...  I  fear  you  do 
not  see  him  as  I  do — but,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  matter  for 
regret. 

If  there  is  a  more  homely  soldier  than  Grigorie  in  all 
the  Russian  Army,  I  do  not  want  to  see  him.  But  if 
there  is  a  man  with  a  bigger  heart ;  if  there  is  a  more 
faithful  self-appointed  slave  ;  if  there  is  a  more  devoted 
attendant ;  if  there  is  a  kinder  soul  or,  indeed,  a  better 
fellow,  then  I — -well,  do  not  tell  me  of  him.  I  will  not 
believe  you,  and,  anyhow,  I  want  always  to  think  of 
Grigorie  as  the  denstchik  supreme.  The  humour  of  it  all 
is  that  Grigorie  is  a  savage.  He  is  not  pravoslavnic — 
he  is  not  "  orthodox."  He  is  not  Catholic — nor  is  he 
Lithuanian  or  Mohammedan  nor  even  is  he  a  Jew.  He 
is  nothing  at  all.  Just  a  heathen — but  if  one  of  these 
shells  that  are  hurtling  up  as  I  write  should  happen  in 
on  Grigorie  and  me,  I  will  ask  the  Saints  for  nothing 
more  but  that  I  go  with  him  to  his  appointed  place. 
For  heathen,  such  as  he,  a  special  heaven  is.  .  .  . 
True,  Grigorie  says  "  Kava  Bogu  !  " — "  Glory  be  to 
God  !  " — at  least  a  score  of  times  each  day,  but  that  is 
just  a  habit — as  saying  "  damn  "  and  "  hell  "  is  now 
habitual  to  me.  "  Kava  Bogu  "  means  nothing  to  him  ; 
some  of  my  swear  words  mean  the  same  to  me.  Grigorie's 
religion — but  he  does  not  call  it  that — is  that  of  faithful 
service.  It  is  the  religion  of  love  and  duty.  It  is 
practical.     I  find  it  better  than  a  creed  of  words. 

I  will  tell  you  of  his  duties.  In  the  early  morning, 
before  it  is  yet  light,  I  usually  awake  to  find  him  tip- 
toeing clumsily  into  my  sleeping  quarters  to  light  the 
small  wood  stove.  I  feign  to  be  asleep.  It  would  break 
his  heart  if  he  thought  that  he  had  wakened  me.  He 
puts  some  sticks  and  logs  into  the  stove  and  sets  the 
smaller  bits  alight.  Then  he  kneels  down  before  the 
little  fire,  and  blows  and  blows  until  the  danger  of  it 
going  out  is  past.  He  is  a  sort  of  human  bellows.  It  is 
when  he  is  puffing  and  snorting  at  the  stove  that  I  see 


126      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Grigorie  at  his  worst.  A  sort  of  ape-like  profile,  a  greasy 
skin,  mouth  puckered  up,  then  opened  for  more  air — 
with  the  rising,  falling  flames  glowing  on  his  face,  and  one 
eye  shining  like  a  little  bead.  .  .  .  Then  Grigorie  tip- 
toes out,  elephantinely,  and  if  I  do  not  fall  asleep  again 
I  hear  him  at  the  rites  of  cleaning  cooking  pans  and  tin 
plates  and  enamelled  cups.  Also  I  hear  him  fussing 
about  preparing  for  my  morning  meal.  Then  he  tip- 
toes in  again  and  cautiously  approaches  to  my  bed. 
When  still  two  yards  away  he  crouches  down  and 
reaches  out  an  arm  towards  my  boots.  He  takes  them 
with  the  gestures  of  a  thief,  and  creeps  away  again. 
I  hear  a  boot-brush  vigorously  applied.  I  hear  Grigorie 
spit.  Our  blacking  certainly  is  dry.  .  .  .  He  puts  the 
boots  beside  my  bed,  goes  for  a  basin  and  jug  of  water, 
and  quietly  waits  until  I  wake,  standing  by  the  door 
ready  to  serve  me  when  the  moment  comes. 

I  wake  up  gradually.  I  blink  at  him.  He  stands 
motionless,  his  face  without  expression. 

"  Good  morning,  Grigorie,"  I  say. 

"  I  wish  you  health,  your  high  nobility,"  says  he. 

I  partly  dress.  He  helps  me  with  my  boots.  He 
places  the  basin  on  a  stool.  When  I  am  ready  he  hands 
me  the  soap  and  pours  water  into  my  hands  ;  and  I 
wash.  It  is  like  bathing  at- a  running  tap,  only  easier — 
one  does  not  have  to  turn  it  on  or  off.  Grigorie  does 
all  that.  He  pours,  and  stops,  and  pours  again.  Finally 
he  hands  me  my  towel  and  asks  if  he  may  remove  the 
basin.  I  mutter  "  Yes  "  from  behind  the  towel,  and 
out  he  goes.  He  fetches  in  tea  and  black  bread  and  a 
demi-round  of  cheese  or  a  dish  of  cold,  red,  marbled 
sausage  cut  in  slices.  And  he  watches  me  all  the  time 
so  that  he  can  refill  my  cup  when  I  am  ready. 

Breakfast  over,  he  washes  up  and  makes  my  bed  and 
sweeps  the  floor  and  wipes  my  table  and  my  stool  ; 
and  carries  water  and  chops  firewood  and  makes  my 
dinner,  and  serves  it,  and  washes  up  and  wipes  the  table 
and  sees  to  the  samovar  ;  then  tea — and  later,  supper  and 
more  washing  up,  more  wiping  of  the  table,  and  a  special 
stoking  of  the  stove  ;  then  he  sits  in  his  little  den, 
between  the  inner  and  the  outer  door,  and  sings  un- 
musically in  a  quiet,  dreary  voice.  His  duties  never  end 
until  I  fall  asleep.     Then  he  lies  down  between  the  doors. 


GRIGORIE  127 

amongst  the  pans  and  logs  and  odds  and  ends,  and 
spends  the  night  as  watch-dog-sentinel.  Sometimes 
when  it  was  very  cold  during  the  winter,  I  have  seen  him 
creep  into  my  room  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  to 
re-light  the  stove  so  that  I,  the  lord  and  master,  should 
be  warmer.  And  that  underground  room,  without  a 
stove,  was  icy  cold.  Grigorie's  den  must  have  been 
doubly  so,  but  any  temperature  less  chilly  than  twenty 
degrees  of  frost  was  mild  to  him.  He  is  one  man  in 
the  millions  that  form  the  Russian  Army. 

Any  faults  he  has  are  the  outcome  of  his  goodness. 

"  Golubchik  "  ("  Little  Pigeon  ")  said  I  to  him  one  day. 
"  I'm  going  to  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours,  so  please  call 
me  at  five  o'clock  certain."  I  had  had  no  sleep  for  two 
nights  and  was  very  tired. 

"  I  listen,  your  high  nobility,"  said  he.  "I  will 
attend  to  you." 

"  Five— exact,"  said  I.     "  Thou  understandest  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  your  high  nobility,  I  understand.  I 
will  attend,"  he  said. 

I  slept  and  awoke  in  the  dark. 

"Grigorie!"  I  called. 

"  I,  your  high  nobility,"  said  he,  appearing  almost 
before  I  had  said  the  last  syllable  of  his  name.  He 
stood  at  attention  as  he  always  does. 

"  Devil  knows  !  "  I  swore.     "  What  time  is  it  ?  " 

"  Eight  o'clock,  your  high  nobility.  .  .  .  Eight  o'clock 
exact." 

"I  said  five!  .  .  .  Thou  understandest  ?  .  .  .  Five!" 
I  said,  a  little  louder  than  I  usually  speak. 

"  Your  high  nobility,"  he  said  in  his  thin,  wheezy 
voice,  "  I  came  at  five,  but  you  were  asleep  and  I  was 
afraid." 

He  smiled  timidly  at  me. 

"  Listen  !  "  said  I.  "  When  I  am  asleep  thou  does 
not  need  to  be  afraid.  When  I  am  awake — yes,  if  thou 
wishest ;   but  when  I  am  asleep — no." 

"  Precisely  so,  your  high  nobility.  I  will  attend.  I 
understand." 

"  Nothing  more,"  said  I,  and  I  went  off  to  the  duty  I 
should  have  been  at  three  hours  before. 

But  I  felt  all  the  better  for  my  rest. 


128    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

II 

The  language  of  the  Russian  soldier  is  a  language 
quite  apart.  He  never  says  "  Yes,"  and  he  never  says 
"  No,"  when  answering  his  officers.  "  Tak  tochno  " 
("Precisely  so")  and  "Neekak  n'yet"  ("Not  so,  no") 
are  what  he  says  instead.  He  never  answers  "  I  do  not 
know."  "  Ya  ne  mogu  z'nat  "  ("I  am  not  able  to 
know  ")  is  the  recognised  phrase.  He  punctuates  each 
sentence  his  officer  says  to  him  with  such  remarks  as 
"I  understand,"  "I  listen,"  "I  will  attend,"  and 
"  Precisely  so."  If  an  officer  says  "  Thanks,"  the  Rus- 
sian soldier  answers  "  Rad  staratsia "  ("I  am  glad 
that  you  are  pleased  ").  He  never  says  "  Thank  you  "  ; 
he  always  says  "  I  respectfully  thank  you."  If  an 
officer  said — I  write  in  the  past  tense  now — "  How  do 
you  do  ?  "  or  "  Good  health !  "  or  "  Good  morning,"  the 
soldier  answered  with  a  short,  "  I  wish  you  health,  your 
nobility,"  or  "  Your  high  nobility,"  as  the  case  might 
be.  And  the  officers  always  speak  to  him  as  "  Thou." 
It  was  a  sign  of  servitude,  this  second  person  singular. 
.  .  .  One  says  "  Thou  "  in  Russian  to  servants,  and  to 
one's  wife,  and  to  God.  .  .  . 

Poor  Grigorie  spoke  very  much  as  a  parrot  might 
speak.  He  gave  his  responses  mechanically.  Some- 
times he  mixed  his  answers  up,  so  that  when  I  said, 
"  Thanks  "  to  him,  he  shouted  "  I  respectfully  thank  you." 
And  at  least  on  one  occasion,  when  I  was  suffering  from 
a  sprain  and  when  I  told  him  I  was  ill,  he  shouted,  "  I 
am  glad  that  you  are  pleased,  your  high  nobility." 
There  was  no  recognised  formulated  answer,  and  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  got  nervous,  and  said  the 
wrong  thing.  Greater  men  in  such  circumstances  have 
committed  greater  faux  pas. 

With  the  coming  of  this  New  Russia,  the  Old  Order 
has  changed.  Officers  no  longer  can  say  "  Thou." 
All  soldiers  must  be  spoken  to  as  "  You."  Soldiers 
no  longer  need  say  "  Your  high  nobility,"  "  Your  ex- 
cellence," or  such-like  forms  of  address.  "  Mr.  Com- 
mander," "Mr.  Captain,"  "Mr.  Colonel,"  and  "Mr. 
General  "  are  the  official  terms  to  be  used.  I  explained 
this  to  Grigorie. 


GRIGORIE  129 

"  And  you  are  '  you  '  now,"  said  I,  "  not  '  thou.' 
Dost — do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  listen,  your  high  nobility,"  said  he. 

"  And  I  am  not  '  your  high  nobility  '  any  more,"  I 
said. 

Grigorie's  face  fell.  It  was  as  if  his  beloved  master 
had  been  reduced  in  rank. 

"  Do  you  understand.  Little  Pigeon  ?  "  said  I. 

"  I  listen,  your " 

"  '  Mr.  Commander,'  "  I  prompted. 

"  Mr.  Commander,"  said  he,  nervously. 

This  afternoon  he  brought  me  tea. 

"  Tea,  your  high  nobility,"  he  said.  Then,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon — tea,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  Damn  it !  "  said  I,  hurt,  "  you  don't  need  to  beg 
my  pardon  !  " 

"  Precisely  so  ...  I  listen.  ...  I  understand.  .  .  . 
Precisely  so,  your  high  nobility,"  said  he. 

Custom  dies  hard.  Some  day  this  great  big  simple 
orderly  of  mine  will  learn  the  freedom  that  is  now  his 
right.  A  day  will  come  when  Grigorie  will  say  "  Your 
high  nobility  "  no  more.  But  gratefully  I  know  that 
I  shall  always  be  a  noble  in  his  heart,  and  I  am  proud  of 
my  clean  domain.  ... 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GRIGORIE — THE   MISER 

Grigorte,  my  orderly,  is  a  miser.  He  hoards  his 
money.  He  keeps  it  in  an  armoured  purse.  Also  he 
counts  it  several  times  each  week.  Perhaps  he  hopes 
that  it  will  grow  ;  rather,  I  think,  he  fears  that  some 
money  may  fade  away.  Therefore  he  watches  it  with 
anxiousness. 

As  Russian  soldiers  go,  Grigorie  is  rich.  I  can  explain 
this  thus  :  Firstly,  Grigorie  is  Grigorie,  and,  secondly, 
I  am  I.  This  sentence,  too,  needs  explanation.  .  .  . 
Grigorie,  although  the  ugliest  man  I  know,  is  the  best 
and  kindest  soul  alive.  Alas  !  bad  temper  comes  to 
me  at  times,  and  then  I  speak  cross  words  to  him. 
Follows  remorse,  and  I  see  his  eyes  again — the  eyes  of  a 
hurt  child.  I  call  him  to  me.  "  Little  Pigeon,"  I  say. 
That  is  all.  But  I  hand  him  half  a  rouble — or  a  rouble 
if  my  words  have  been  very  bad.  I  do  not  explain  the 
gift,  but  I  think  he  understands.  He  beams  on  me,  and 
I  see  forgiveness  in  his  face — and  I  marvel  at  the  cheap- 
ness of  the  price  of  peace  of  mind.  .  .  .  So,  as  soldiers 
go,  Grigorie  is  rich.  Otherwise,  certainly,  one  cannot 
save  on  wages  just  a  little  more  than  a  halfpenny  per 
day. 

Grigorie  counts  his  money  in  the  safety  of  my  room. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Commander,"  he  says,  and  he 
fumbles  in  his  trouser  pocket  for  his  purse. 

This  pocket  is  big  and  deep.  The  purse  lies  at  the 
foot.  The  top  of  it  is  a  cloth  bag  of  machorka — chopped- 
up  tobacco-root  such  as  the  Russian  soldiers  like  to 
smoke.  Other  articles,  too,  are  there — a  knife,  a  piece 
of  string,  some  crumpled  letters.     And  on  top  of  all  is 

180 


GRIGORIE— THE  MISER  181 

a  crushed-up  piece  of  newspaper  that  Grifforie  wedges 
in  tightly  so  that  it  forms  a  sort  of  hd.  All  these — the 
paper  and  the  letters  and  the  string  and  knife  and  small 
cloth  bag  have  to  be  removed  before  the  armoured  purse 
is  reached.  Leather  and  large,  this  purse,  and  bound 
with  steel.  Grigorie  opens  it.  Another  purse  is  then 
exposed.  He  takes  this  out.  In  it  is  still  a  third.  Then 
comes  a  little  packet  wrapped  in  cloth.  And  then  a 
packet  wrapped  in  newspaper.  .  .  .  Then  Grigorie 
feasts  his  eyes  upon  his  rouble  notes.  Each  one  is 
folded  separately.  Each  one  is  opened  and  smoothed 
out.  He  spreads  them  on  the  little  table  in  the  corner 
of  my  room.  I  hear  him  muttering  :  "  Rouble  .... 
ten  kopecks  ....  and  ten  ....  ten  and  ten  '* — 
hesitatingly  —  "  twenty  ....  rouble  twenty  .... 
three  roubles.  ..."  I  must  have  told  him  to  go  to 
the  devil  on  that  occasion — "  Four  roubles  twenty.  ..." 
and  so  on. 

He  folds  the  notes  up  carefully,  wraps  them  in  paper, 
then  in  cloth  ;  then  in  the  purse,  and  in  the  purse,  and 
in  the  other  purse.  To  the  depths  of  his  trouser  pocket 
once  again — with  bag  and  knife  and  string  and  letters 
and  crushed-up  newspaper  on  top.  He  pats  his  leg  to 
feel  that  his  wealth  is  there.  He  prepares  to  leave  the 
room.     This  is  the  moment  for  me  to  speak. 

"  How  much,  Grigorie  ?  "  I  ask. 

"  Twenty-eight  roubles,  twenty-four  kopecks,  Mr. 
Commander !  "  he  answers  joyfully.  That  was  last 
week — ten  days  ago. 

"  My  God  !  "  I  say — these  words  are  quite  nice  in 
Russian — "  but  you  are  rich  !  " 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander.  Glory  be  to  God, 
rich  !  " 

And  he  grins  toothlessly,  and  his  eyes  all  but  dis- 
appear. 

Two  days  later  he  came  to  me  and  begged  my  help. 
He  has  a  wife  and  babies  in  Siberia — God  knows  how 
many  hundred  versts  away.  He  writes  long  letters 
every  week.  But  now  he  had  a  wonderful  surprise  in 
store.  Twenty-five  roubles,  to  be  exact.  And  to  send 
these  by  post,  he  asked  me  to  assist.  .  .  .  The  money 
went  that  day,  and  in  the  evening  he  added  up  the  notes 
that  still  remained. 

K  2 


132    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  How  much,  Grigorie  ?  "  I  asked  as  usual. 

"  Three  roubles,  Mr.  Commander.  .  .  .  Three  roubles 
fourteen  kopecks." 

"  You've  been  playing  cards  !  "  said  I  severely. 

"  I  am  not  able  to  understand,"  Grigorie  said  gravely. 

"  I  remember,"  said  I,  "  you  had  twenty-eight  roubles, 
twenty-four  kopecks.  To-day  you've  sent  twenty-five 
away.     You  ought  to  have  three  roubles  twenty-four." 

Grigorie  confessed  to  extravagance.  He  had  bought 
some  cigarettes  from  the  little  army  shop. 


II 

That  was  eight  days  ago.  I  felt  very  pleased  with 
Grigorie,  and  so  I  have  not  been  irritable  with  him  since. 
And  so,  as  pay-day  is  still  two  weeks  off,  no  further 
money  is  in  that  five-fold  purse. 

To-day  I  saw  the  following  :  Grigorie  was  chopping 
wood  beside  my  dug-out  door.  He  had  a  cigarette  in 
his  mouth — a  clumsy  cigarette  made  of  machorka 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  newspaper.  Incidentally,  he  was 
wearing  woollen  gloves  ;  also  he  wields  his  axe  left- 
handedly.  .  .  .  Another  soldier  walked  along  our  way. 
A  tired  soldier  with  a  bulky  knapsack  on  his  back. 

"  Good  day,"  said  he. 

"  Good  day,"  said  Grigorie,  continuing  to  cut  up  wood. 

The  man  stopped.  Grigorie  chopped.  And  then  my 
orderly  looked  up.  He  gave  a  little  cry,  dropped  his 
axe,  pulled  off  his  woollen  gloves,  shook  hands  excitedly 
— and  the  two  fell  into  each  other's  arms  and  kissed. 
Then  they  sat  on  the  wood  pile,  and  Grigorie  made  a 
cigarette  for  his  friend — and  they  smoked  and  talked 
for  half  an  hour.  Grigorie  could  not  see  me,  but  from 
my  window — level  with  the  ground — I  could  see  him. 
His  face  was  wonderful. 

At  last  the  other  rose  to  go.  And  then  Grigorie  did 
a  most  unusual  thing.  He  removed  the  paper  lid  from 
his  pocket.  And  he  removed  the  articles  that  fortified 
his  purse.  And  he  opened  his  purse  out  there — not  in 
the  secret  safety  of  my  room — and  thrust  a  rouble  into 
his  fellow-soldier's  hand.  Then  they  grasped  hands 
once  again,  and  kissed,  and  the  soldier  went  away  and 


GRIGORIE— THE  MISER  133 

Grigorie  watched  him  go,   then  lit   his   cigarette  and 
chopped  up  one  or  two  more  logs. 

When  Grigorie  came  to  my  room  with  an  armful  of 
firewood,  he  looked  very  excited.  Of  course  I  under- 
stood. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Little  Pigeon,"  said  I. 

*'  My  zemlak,  Mr.  Commander  !  .  .  .  .  My  zemlak  !  " 

So  the  two  men  were  from  the  same  wee  village  in 
Siberia.  .  .  . 

"  We  left  for  war  together,  Mr.  Commander,  and  we 
only  met  again  to-day." 

"  And  did  he  know  that  you  were  here  ?  " 

"  Not  so,  no,  Mr.  Commander,"  said  Grigorie.  "  I 
was  chopping  wood.  I  heard  a  man  say  '  Good  day.' 
I  said  '  Good  day '  but  I  did  not  even  look  " —  and  he 
told  me  all  about  the  incident  I  had  seen.  But  not  a 
word  about  the  rouble.  .  .  . 

"  Grigorie,  Little  Pigeon,"  said  I,  "  I  saw  your  zem- 
lak, .  .  .  And  you  gave  him  a  rouble  ?  " 

Poor  Grigorie  was  confused.  He  stammered  nervously. 

"  My  fellow- villager,  Mr.  Commander,"  he  said  in  his 
thin  voice.  "  He  is  poor,  Mr.  Commander.  .  .  .  And 
he  has  little  children,  too.  .  .  .  His  children  and  mine 
play  together,  Mr.  Commander.  .  .  .  And  he  does  not 
have  white  bread.  .  .  .  You  are  a  very  kind  man,  Mr. 
Commander,  so  sometimes  I  have  white  bread.  ..." 
He  paused,  unable  to  proceed.  Then,  nervously,  "  I 
gave  him  a  present,  Mr.  Commander.  .  .  .  He  was  very 
happy." 

"  And  you  were  happy,  too.  Little  Pigeon  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander.  ...  I  was  very 
happy." 

"  I,  too,  am  very  happy,  Grigorie,"  said  I.  "  I  want 
to  be  still  more  happy,"  I  added,  "so  I  will  give  you 
this.  ...  It  is  my  present." 

I  handed  him  a  five-rouble  note. 

"  If  another  zemlak  comes  along,  and  if  you  give  him 
that,"  I  said — and  all  of  a  sudden  I  found  that  tears  had 
welled  up  in  my  eyes — "  you  will  be  the  ruin  of  me,  my 
dear." 


CHAPTER  XVIT 

HIS   EXCELLENCE 

In  the  morning,  the  General,  Chief  of  Staff,  walked 
in  the  grounds  of  the  mansion  where  he  lived.  There 
was  a  splendid  sun.  The  snowy  garden  glistened  in  its 
light.  Up  in  the  sky  were  German  aeroplanes.  One 
scarce  could  see  them.  Only  a  distant  hum,  as  of  a 
motor-car  very  far  away,  the  Russian  guns  and  little 
shrapnel  clouds  told  one  that  enemy  machines  were 
there.  When  one  looked  up  one's  eyes  were  dazzled 
with  the  sun.  The  aeroplane  observers  must  have  found 
the  shining  fields  most  difficult  to  spy. 

The  General  walked  as  far  as  the  big  iron  gate.  The 
guard  stood  stiffly  at  salute,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  Chief, 
Andrei  and  Gregory,  giants  of  men,  grey-coated,  the 
red  armlet  of  the  army  police  upon  their  sleeves. 

"  Good  health,  brothers,"  the  General  said. 

A  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  answering  shout : 

"  We  wish  you  health.  Your  Excellence  !  " 

The  General  smiled  and  signalled  with  his  hand  that 
they  could  stand  at  ease,  and  then  he  walked  away 
again — slowly  along  the  trampled  garden  path. 

A  young  staff  officer  came  down  the  mansion  steps. 
He  saluted,  and  standing  thus  he  spoke  a  few  words 
to  his  chief.  The  General  went  with  him  to  the  house. 
And  then  he  worked  until  the  mid-day  meal. 

In  the  afternoon  he  lay  down  in  his  room  to  rest. 

He  had  been  early  up  that  day.     He  had  been  late  the 

night  before.     He  slept — and  never  woke  again.     They 

found  him  with  a  peaceful  smile  on  his  calm  face.     Death 

came — not  as  he  himself  had  wished,  but  as  we  would 

have  wished  for  him. 

m 


HIS  EXCELLENCE  135 

Four  regiments  were  told  the  news  by  telephone.     A 
wire  was  sent  to  Petrograd. 


II 

Behind  our  lines  a  wide  snow-levelled  plain  specked 
with  black  dots  of  bushes,  only  the  tops  of  which  were 
seen.  A  few  dug-outs,  a  peasant's  hut  or  two  where 
soldiers  lived,  patches  of  firs,  snow-laden.  Hard  beaten 
tracks  that  led  from  point  to  point,  with  pine  branches 
stuck  in  the  ground  to  guide  one's  way.  Single  lines  of 
field  telephone  wire  that  further  helped  to  show  direc- 
tion. Sledges  in  ones  and  twos  and  strings  of  eight  and 
ten  glided  all  day  across  the  woods.  Firewood,  and 
bread,  and  hay,  and  timber  for  new  trench  supports — 
the  loads  were  varied.  Heavy  wheeled  carts  from  time 
to  time  crunched  past  with  a  curious  metallic  sound,  as 
of  the  jingling  of  sleigh  bells,  as  the  wheels  went  over 
the  frozen  ground.  Men  on  horseback — men  on  foot, 
bending  their  weight  against  the  wind. 

A  row  of  pines,  and,  just  beyond,  a  disused  factory. 
A  Red  Cross  flag  flew  from  the  roof.  The  place  was  now 
a  lazaret.  A  cross  above  a  cellar  door  with  "  Church  " 
painted  in  great  black  letters  by  the  side.  Two  steps 
that  led  down  from  the  level  ground  into  a  damp  earth- 
floored  room.  The  walls  were  of  rough  tree  trunks. 
Some  fir  branches  were  placed  to  hide  the  crudeness 
of  the  unplaned  beams.  The  low  ceiling  had  once  been 
white- washed  ;  now  it  was  a  dirty  grey.  At  the  eastern 
end  an  unpainted  partition.  Cheap  gaudy-coloured 
pictures  of  the  saints  were  fastened  there  with  drawing 
pins.    Behind  this  wooden  screen  there  was  a  simple  altar. 

The  church  was  three  miles  from  the  firing  line. 
Inside,  it  might  have  been  a  thousand  versts  away.  In 
the  very  crudeness  of  it — the  simplicity — there  was 
something  wonderfully  impressive.  One  thought  of 
Moscow  and  of  Petrograd — of  the  great  churches  there 
with  all  their  wealth  of  ornament — paintings  by  great 
masters  ;  gold  work  and  jewels  ;  wonderful  carvings 
and  tapestries.  Memories  of  Bible  lessons  of  another 
year.  ..."  Where  one  or  two  are  gathered  together  in 
My  Name.  .  .  .  there  will  I  be  in  the  midst  of  them,      ,  •" 


186      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

I  have  been  in  Russian  chapels  less  than  two  hundred 
paces  from  our  front  trench  and  heard  a  service  while 
the  shells  screamed  overhead.  One  feels  quite  safe,  no 
matter  how  the  shrapnels  whistle.  .  .  . 

Night-time,  and  "  projectors  "  lighting  up  the  battle 
lines,  and  rockets  rising  up  above  the  barbed-wired 
space  between.  Artillery  and  machine-gun  fire  ;  rifle 
volleys — single  shots — the  huge  crash  and  earthquake 
of  a  sprung  mine.  The  whistle  of  a  sentry  now  and  then 
— the  sign  for  some  strange  passer-by  to  stop.  A  jingle 
of  bells  from  a  sledge.  Sometimes  the  singing  of  a 
company  of  men. 

The  dead  General,  dressed  in  full  uniform,  his  sword 
and  cap  upon  his  breast,  lay  in  a  metal  casket  in  the 
church.  A  guard  of  soldiers,  great-coated  but  bare  of 
head,  stood  by  the  corners  of  the  coffin.  It  was  gloomy 
and  cold  and  damp  in  the  converted  cellar.  A  tiny 
candle  before  an  ikon  supplied  the  only  light.  It 
flickered  in  the  draught,  causing  queer  shadows  to 
come  and  go  around  the  walls  and  on  the  ceiling.  The 
Holy  Mother's  face  seemed  to  smile — and  then  to  dis- 
appear. .  .  . 

Ill 

The  morning  when  the  Mass  was  held  was  dull  and 
grey.  We  drove  or  rode  across  the  levelled  plain  towards 
the  cellar  church.  Sledges  with  two  horses — abreast 
or  running  tandem-wise.  Sledges  with  teams  of  three 
to  pull  them,  the  outer  horses  plunging  in  the  drifts  by 
the  road's  edge.  Officers  on  horseback,  too — and  all 
of  us  so  muffled  up  one  could  not  tell  our  rank.  Woolly 
caps  that  came  down  round  our  neck  and  ears  ;  hoods 
of  warm  camel  wool ;  mufflers  round  our  jaws — only 
our  eyes  were  to  be  seen. 

We  lined  up  in  the  little  church.  The  divisional 
commander  was  there — and  the  General  in  charge  of 
the  Army  Corps.  A  soldier  gave  us  thin  brown  candles 
and  lit  them  with  the  one  he  held  himself.  The  army 
priest  chanted  the  service  in  a  deep  bass  voice. 

There  was  a  woman  there.     She  knelt  by  the  coffin's 


HIS  EXCELLENCE  187 

edge,  clutching  at  it  with  feverish,  white,  ringless  fingers, 
and  crying  broken-heartedly  to  the  dead.  .  .  . 

"  My  love  !  .  .  .  .  My  love  !  ....  Oh  !  my  soul. 
....  My  dear  soul  !  " 

A  staff  officer  stood  at  her  left  hand  side  ;  a  regimental 
doctor  at  the  right.  Behind  him  was  a  sanitar,  white- 
overalled,  with  a  small  bottle  and  a  pad  of  cotton- 
wool. .  .  . 

The  priest  chanted  a  prayer.  An  immense  censer 
perfumed  the  air  as  it  swung  on  its  silver  chain. 

"  Oh  !  My  God  !  ...  .  My  God  !  "  the  woman 
cried.     Her  sobs  were  pitiful. 

There  was  a  choir  of  soldiers  in  the  altar  space.  They 
sang  softly  while  we  all  knelt  upon  the  damp  earth  floor. 

"  Oh  I  Christ,  give  peace  with  the  saints  to  the  soul 
of  Thy  servant.  .  .  .  There  is  no  sadness  nor  sorrow  nor 
suffering  there.  .  .  .  but  only  Life  Everlasting.  ..." 

The  woman  screamed  hysterically. 

"  Now,  now,"  the  priest  said  to  her.  "  Calm.  .  .  . 
Be  calm.  .  .  .  Calmly  " — and  he  held  his  silver  cross 
to  her  lips  so  that  she  could  kiss  it. 

Then  very  softly  came  the  final  chant : 

"  Vechnaya  Pamiat.  .  .  .  Vechnaya  Pamiat.  .  .  . 
Vechnaya  Pamiat.  ..." 

"  Remember  eternally  " — the  words  were  sung  slowly 
three  times. 

We  rose  and  straightened  ourselves,  then  filed  out  into 
the  open  air. 


IV 

A  thousand  soldiers  lined  one  side  of  the  curving 
approach  to  the  church — from  opposite  the  door  to  where 
the  track  cut  straight  across  the  plain  towards  the 
railway  line  ten  iniles  away.  A  grey  wall  of  a  thousand 
men — spiked  with  a  thousand  bayonets.  A  respirator 
in  a  green  tin  box  hung  at  each  man's  side.  A  military 
band  stood  in  square  form.  We  took  our  place  in  front 
of  it  and  waited  bare  of  head.  There  was  a  bitter  wind. 
The  bandsmen  warmed  their  fingers  with  their  breath. 

Two  men  in  yellow  robes  came  from  the  church.  One 
held  aloft  an  image  of  Christ  upon  the  Cross  ;  the  other 


188      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

carried  a  banner  with  a  pictured  saint.  Then  came  a 
third  bearing  a  cushion  in  his  hands  on  which  lay  the 
medals  and  decorations  of  the  General's  career.  *  The 
priest  came  next,  and  then  eight  officers  carried  out  the 
body  of  their  former  chief.  They  had  some  difficulty 
at  the  low  narrow  door.  .  .  . 

The  Colonel,  mounted  on  his  white  horse,  shouted  a 
command.  The  battalion  of  men  that  lined  the  road 
presented  arms,  and  fixed  their  eyes  upon  the  metal  box. 
The  band  played  a  hymn  softly.  The  screams  of  the 
woman  rose  above  all.  The  staff  officer  and  the  doctor 
supported  her  at  each  side. 

A  field  gun — a  grim,  green-painted  gun — drawn  by  a 
steaming  team  of  eight,  stood  ready  for  its  load.  The 
rough  wooden  platform  above  the  four-inch  barrel 
looked  very  crude  beneath  the  ornamental  coffin.  The 
ropes,  too,  did  not  harmonise.  The  horses  strained  in 
their  traces,  the  wheels  crunched  on  the  frozen  snow, 
and  the  journey  to  the  train  began.  A  little  brown 
horse,  well  rugged  against  the  cold,  went  first  behind  the 
military  hearse.  Then  came  the  woman,  still  stretching 
out  her  ringless  hands ;  the  generals  and  younger 
officers  ;  the  band,  still  playing  its  soft  tune,  drums 
rolling  out  a  muffled  moan.  Four  soldiers  left  the  wall 
of  men — then  other  four — and  thus  until  the  whole 
battalion  swung  into  place  in  the  procession.  A 
battery  of  guns  was  drawn  up  at  the  corner  of  the  road, 
where  it  branched  off  across  the  great  white  plain.  The 
officers  and  men  stood  at  the  salute. 

We  walked  a  verst  and  then  we  got  into  the  sledges 
that  had  followed  us  and  rode  instead.  The  priest  and 
the  men  in  yellow  robes  returned  towards  the  church, 
their  thin  robes  flopping  in  the  cutting  wind.  The  band 
ceased  to  play.     We  quickened  our  pace. 

Passing  soldiers  doffed  their  caps  and  crossed  them- 
selves. .  .  . 


Evening,  and  a  glorious  sky — the  dullness  of  the  day 
all  gone.  The  west  horizon  salmon  pink  above  the 
setting  sun.     Long,  narrow,  damson-coloured  clouds  all 


HIS  EXCELLENCE  189 

lined  with  gold.  The  snow  a  yellow-rosy  tint  with  long 
thin  bars  of  lavender  where  shadows  fell  from  dark 
green  pines  and  tops  of  tiny  shrubs.  Towards  the  east 
a  sky  of  quite  another  hue — the  colour  we  call  "  plum." 
The  pinkness  changed  to  cinnamon  ;  the  snow  to  various 
shades  of  grey  with  queer  wind-blown  wrinkles  on  the 
plain,  and  broad  flat  waves  such  as  one  sees  at  low  tide 
on  the  sand.  Curious  patches  of  white,  also,  where  men 
had  trod  or  where  a  dog  had  passed  across.  A  haze, 
the  colour  of  tobacco  smoke,  hung  veil-like  over  the 
distant  west. 

Then  stars  came  tumbling  out,  blinking  as  though 
awakening  from  sleep.  There  was  a  moon — a  full 
round  moon  as  yet  not  fully  lit.  Pale  and  whitish,  it 
seemed  a  phantom  of  its  yellow  self.  A  hush  lay  over 
all  the  land.  Then  suddenly  a  rocket  rose  above 
the  facing  lines  ;  and  then  another  ;  and  a  searchlight 
swung  round  on  a  trial  course.  Flashes  of  guns  came  in 
the  sky  like  wild-fire  ;   one  does  not  notice  them  by  day. 

The  General,  new  Chief  of  Staff,  drove  homeward 
through  the  snow.  He  had  had  a  busy  day.  There 
was  the  service  in  the  little  church,  and  then  the  slow  ride 
to  the  railway  line.  There  were  regimental  staffs  to 
visit  after  that.  The  troika  horses  raced  along,  nostrils 
smoking,  sides  steaming  in  the  frosty  air.  They  climbed 
the  hill  towards  the  staff  quarters  at  walking  pace, 
heads  down,  for  they  were  tired.  They  turned  slowly 
to  enter  through  the  gate. 

The  guard  stood  stiffly  at  attention.  Andrei  and 
Gregory,  giants  of  men,  were  on  evening  duty  at  their 
post. 

"  Good  health,  brothers,"  the  General,  Chief  of  Staff, 
said.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  warm  lights  of  the  mansion 
windows. 

A  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  answering  shout : 

"  We  wish  vou  health,  Your  Excellence  !  "  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


When  I  was  in  Petrograd  in  the  beginning  of  January, 
1917,  I  had  dinner  one  evening  with  a  retired  Russian 
Admiral,  who  at  one  time  had  been  in  command  of  the 
Russian  ships  in  the  Danube  and  in  that  part  of  the 
Black  Sea  into  which  the  river  runs.  We  discussed  the 
evacuation  of  the  Dobruja.  I  told  him  of  our  move- 
ments there.  Of  course,  he  knew  the  country  perfectly. 
I  was  enthusiastic  about  the  Danube  as  a  natural  barrier 
to  check  the  enemy's  progress.  The  river  was  wide  and 
deep  and  swift.  Also  the  Dobruja  side  opposite  Braila, 
Galatz,  Reni  and  Ismail  was  low.  An  enemy  could  not 
approach  under  cover.  He  could  place  pontoon  boats 
only  with  great  difficulty  and  at  a  very  heavy  cost. 
I  ventured  the  opinion  that  the  river  from  Braila  down- 
wards would  not  be  crossed. 

"  The  matter  lies  with  God,"  said  the  Admiral. 

I  did  not  quite  understand.     "  With  God  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  with  God.  ...  If  the  river  is 
frozen  the  enemy  can  easily  cross." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  it  was  as  mild  as  an  English  spring 
when  I  was  there  last  month,  and  I  was  told  that  for  at 
least  two  years  the  Dobruja  has  been  entirely  free  from 
snow." 

The  Admiral  then  told  me  that  he  remembered  many 
winters  in  the  past  when  the  lower  Danube  was  frozen  ; 
when  an  army  could  easily  have  passed  across  the  ice, 
men  and  horses,  and  artillery  as  well.  That  it  was  so 
mild  in  the  winter  1916-1917  was  pure  luck,  for  on  other 
parts  of  the  Russian  Front,  and,  indeed,  throughout  the 
greater  part  of  Europe,  the  winter  had  been  the  coldest 

140 


"WEATHER  PERMITTING  .  .  .  ."         141 

and  the  most  severe  for  many  years.  When  I  reached 
the  Baranovitchi  Front  some  days  later,  I  found  the 
weather  conditions  quite  arctic.  The  winter  of  1915- 
1916,  which  I  had  spent  a  Httle  to  the  north,  had  been 
comparatively  mild.  This  following  winter,  further 
south  and  at  a  similar  altitude,  found  us  shivering  in 
twenty-five  degrees  of  frost.  It  was  the  most  severe 
winter  the  district  had  had  for  a  long  period  of  years. 
As  a  rule,  I  was  told  by  men  who  knew  that  part  of  the 
country  well,  sledges  were  not  necessary. 

The  weather  is  a  most  important  factor  in  the  war. 
Germans  and  Russians  and  weather — the  last  sometimes 
friendly,  sometimes  against  us,  more  seldom  neutral. 
Considering  the  fact  that  we  did  no  attacking,  the  worse 
the  weather  was  the  better  it  was  for  us.  The  Russian 
soldier  is  a  sort  of  Thermos  man.  He  can  stand  great 
heat  and  great  cold  with  equal  ease.  The  heaviest 
storms  of  rain  may  drench  his  body  and  flood  his  sleeping 
quarters,  but  they  cannot  even  damp  his  spirits.  No 
other  soldiers  can  endure  the  same  climatic  privations 
as  the  Russians  can.  Certainly  not  the  Germans.  A 
storm  of  snow  or  rain  or  wind  meant  freedom  from  the 
enemy's  attacks.  If  we  accepted  invitations  to  visit 
other  camps  for  dinner  or  for  supper,  we  used  to  say  in 
1915,  "  Germans  permitting."  After  the  great  retreat 
came  to  an  end,  we  used  to  say,  "  Weather  permitting." 
And  the  weather  that  allowed  us  to  leave  our  posts  and 
ride  or  drive  to  visit  other  officers  was  bad  weather. 
The  worse  it  was  the  greater  our  peace  of  mind. 

Clear  days  of  sun  brought  aeroplanes  and  bombs. 
If  one  had  to  go  on  duty  across  the  plains,  such  days 
were  very  bad.  Certainly  no  bombs  fell  in  the  open 
spaces  far  away  from  camps  and  villages  and  railway 
points,  but  our  own  anti-aircraft  shrapnel  did — our  own 
shrapnel  bullets  and  shrapnel  heads  and  pieces  of  shrap- 
nel shell.  These  were  worse  than  the  bombs  them- 
selves, because  they  were  in  much  greater  numbers 
and  we  had  absolutely  no  shelter.  Sometimes  our  own 
men  were  killed  by  Russian  shrapnel,  whereas  the 
bombs  would  often  fall  and  injure  not  a  single  man. 
The  worst  weather  of  all,  from  our  point  of  view,  was  a 
slow  wind  from  the  west.  Then  we  might  be  attacked 
with  gas.    We  were  always  warned  when  a  favourable 


14^    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

time  for  enemy  gas  shells  came.  A  telephoned  notice 
would  come  from  the  Divisional  Staff  to  say  that  the 
weather  was  suitable  for  an  enemy  gas  attack.  Then 
we  were  supposed  to  see  to  the  readiness  of  our  masks 
and  those  of  our  men,  and  not  to  venture  out  without 
our  respirators  with  us.  True,  we  often  went  afield 
without  our  masks,  but  they  were  always  at  hand  in 
our  sleeping  quarters.  They  hung  beside  our  beds 
within  reach.  .  .  .  We  used  to  joke  about  the  warnings. 
A  telephonist  would  come  to  our  quarters. 

"  Gas  attack  ?  "  we  would  ask. 

"  Precisely  so.     Gas  attack,"  he  would  answer. 

"  Very  glad,"  we  would  say.  And  no  one  thought  any 
more  about  the  matter. 

One  morning,  at  two  o'clock,  when  I  was  sound  asleep, 
the  telephonist  woke  me  up  to  give  me  a  telephongram. 
It  was,  as  I  might  have  said  had  he  come  by  day,  the 
announcement  of  "  favourable  weather  for  enemy  gas 
attack  !  "  I  drove  the  man  from  me  in  annoyance. 
But  first  I  told  him  that  he  need  not  trouble  to  inform 
me  about  the  weather,  as  my  mask  and  those  of  my  men 
were  always  at  hand,  and  that  my  men  never  went  out 
without  the  green  tin  boxes  that  held  their  respirators 
slung  to  their  shoulders.  They  were  part  of  the  uniform. 
It  would  be  a  case  of  "  Wolf  !  Wolf  !  "  I  told  him— and 
had  to  explain  that  fable.  .  .  .  Two  days  later,  on 
March  26,  there  was  an  enemy  gas  attack,  and  I  had  not 
been  warned.  .  .  . 

When  a  gas  attack  took  place  at  night  signal  torches 
were  lit  at  once.  A  line  of  these  extended  from  the 
trenches  to  a  point  some  versts  behind.  Tall  poles  with 
straw  wrapped  round  them  and  with  a  bundle  of  straw 
tied  on  top.  This  straw  was  drenched  with  paraffin 
and  set  alight.  When  the  soldier  in  charge  of  the 
second  beacon  saw  the  first  one  blaze,  he  lit  his  ;  the 
third  man  saw  the  second  flare  and  lit  his — and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  news  had  blazed  across  all  the  battle  area. 

So  good  weather  was  bad,  and  bad  weather  was  good. 
We  certainly  had  all  sorts.  The  first  warm  days  of 
spring  were  very  pleasant.  We  left  off  our  overcoats 
and  we  used  to  sit  in  the  open  air.  We  walked  about 
the  camp  without  our  caps  and  our  minds  turned  to 
cool  tents  and  to  open  air  dining  tables.   Then  suddenly, 


**  WEATHER  PERMITTING  ....*'         148 

on  April  18,  we  had  a  storm  of  snow.  Next  day  found 
the  marshes  frozen.  It  was  bitterly  cold.  Snow  fell 
and  then  hail,  and  a  cutting  wind  blew.  The  first 
week  of  May  brought  a  gale  that  bent  and  broke  the 
trees  and  made  the  doors  and  windows  rattle.  But  then 
we  slept  in  peace,  secure  in  our  knowledge  that  our  gas 
masks  would  not  be  required.  The  second  week  in 
May  brought  hot  summer  days  and  clouds  of  dust  upon 
the  tracks.  Then  came  a  thunderstorm — thunder  and 
lightning  and  torrents  of  rain.  My  dug-out  was  flooded. 
The  sun  had  cracked  the  clay  that  formed  the  top  layer 
of  the  roof.  The  rain  passed  through  this  and  poured 
upon  me  as  I  lay  in  bed.  .  .  . 

For  weeks  after  my  return  to  the  Russian  Front  all 
was  calm.  There  was  a  certain  amount  of  social  life. 
The  Staffs  had  to  be  visited  and  there  were  dinner  and 
supper  parties  in  the  various  regimental  messes.  Officers 
would  visit  me,  too,  when  we  drank  tea  and  smoked 
cigarettes  and  talked  of  England.  All  were  very  much 
interested  in  England.  I  had  to  answer  many  questions. 
Being  the  only  "  foreigner  "  on  that  part,  I  received  much 
hospitality  and  I  had  so  many  visitors  each  week  that 
I  was  able  to  act  as  host  in  return.  Which  was  mag- 
nificent— but  not  like  war.  .  .  .  Then,  out  of  a  clear 
sky,  came  an  enemy  attack.  The  weather  had  gone  to 
the  side  of  the  Germans. 

On  the  26th  of  March,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
the  enemy  attacked  with  gas  shells.  His  aeroplanes  had 
been  scouting  over  our  lines  all  forenoon,  dropping  a 
smoke  ball  now  and  then  or  else  a  red  paper  balloon. 
Our  guns  brought  down  two  enemy  machines.  Later 
on  two  of  our  observation  balloons  were  set  on  fire  and 
destroyed  by  German  aeroplane  bombs.  The  enemy 
artillery  kept  up  a  steady  heavy  bombardment  for  about 
five  hours.  High  explosive  shells  were  used  as  well  as 
those  that  discharged  gas.  Four  times  the  German 
infantry  attacked.  The  first  three  times  they  were 
repulsed  with  heavy  losses.  At  the  fourth  attempt 
they  managed  to  gain  possession  of  a  small  section 
of  the  Russian  lines,  less  than  two  versts  in 
length. 

At  this  time  I  was  in  command  of  the  chief  transport 
in  the  division  that  was  attacked,  so  we  had  much  work 


144    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

to  do.  I  also  had  an  oxygen  station  near  the  trenches. 
Here  we  made  oxygen  gas.  We  had  two  hundred  large 
cushions  filled  with  oxygen  when  the  attack  started. 
The  four  regiments  in  the  division  had  also  received  a 
supply  of  these  cushions  from  us  some  time  before,  but 
we  continued  to  send  oxygen  to  the  aid  of  the  gassed 
men.  I  and  my  assistants  worked  for  sixty  hours  at  a 
stretch  without  any  sleep  or  rest.  As  soon  as  the 
cushions  we  gave  were  empty,  they  were  brought  back 
to  us  and  we  filled  them  again.  In  all  we  made  over 
three  hundred  cushions  in  the  three  nights  that  we 
worked,  and  we  transported  many  men  to  the  various 
lazarets  and  field  hospitals  further  back. 

The  L regiment  suffered  most.     This  regiment 

was  one  of  the  finest  in  the  Russian  Army  and  one  of  the 
bravest.  Almost  every  officer  had  received  the  St. 
George's  Cross  for  his  bravery.  This  is  the  highest 
award  in  Russia.  Some  had  English  decorations,  too — 
the  Military  Cross  and  the  D.S.O.  Every  officer  had 
been  wounded  at  least  once.  Several  had  been  wounded 
four  times,  and  one  (he  had  the  Military  Cross)  had  been 
wounded  on  six  different  occasions.  The  Commander 
had  been  wounded  twice.  .  .  . 

Poor  L regiment !  .  .  .  Splendid  and  heroic  as  it 

was,  it  was  also  one  of  the  most  unfortunate.  Few 
regiments  in  this  war  have  suffered  as  it  has  done. 
When  I  wrote  my  book,  "  On  the  Russian  Front,"  I 
mentioned  that  each  Russian  regiment  in  time  of  war 
is  composed  of  4,000  men,  but  that  one  Russian  regi- 
ment of  which  I  know,  after  a  year  of  war  had  already 
had  36,000  men  in  its  ranks.  I  wrote  then,  "  Can  I 
write  anything  more  tragic  than  that  ?  "...  A  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel of  the  L Regiment  assured  me  in 

February  of  1917  that  his  regiment  had  had  more  than 
50,000  men  in  its  ranks  since  war  began,  and  this  in- 
cluding the  year  1916  when  matters  were  comparatively 
quiet  on  the  Russian  Front,  when  the  war  to  a  certain 
extent  was  at  a  standstill.  .  .  .  There  were  rumours 

after  this  gas  attack  that  the  L Regiment  would  go 

into  the  reserve,  but  that  did  not  happen.  The  regiment 
was  filled  up  again  like  a  depleted  oxygen  cushion  and, 
as  I  write,  still  remains  at  the  Front. 

The  third  week  in  May  brought  days  of  great  heat  and 


"  WEATHER  PERMITTING  .  .  .  ."  145 

close  sultry  nights.  It  was  the  fire  season.  On  the 
22nd  I  saw  three  villages  in  flames.  On  the  25th  I 
counted  five  different  fires.  Great  clouds  of  smoke  rose 
on  the  horizon.  The  dry  weather,  the  wooden  cottages 
with  the  thatched  roofs,  and  careless  soldiers — that  was 
the  combination  that  was  to  blame.  A  divisional  order 
of  May  25  warned  the  men  of  the  necessity  of  being 
specially  careful.  This  order  followed  on  a  week  of 
daily  village  fires.  On  May  26  I  rode  past  a  burnt-out 
village.  Only  a  few  bricks  and  a  few  stone  stoves 
remained.  The  entire  village — houses  and  sheds  and 
gates  and  even  the  woodwork  at  the  top  of  the  wells 
had  been  destroyed.  The  light  ashes  had  been  scattered 
with  the  wind  so  that  the  site  of  the  village  was  re- 
markably tidy.  Nearby  were  newly-made  dug-outs  in 
which  the  homeless  soldiers  and  peasants  had  already 
taken  up  their  abode. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    FAMINE   IN   RUSSIA 

Of  the  Russian  Revolution  and  of  the  coming  of  the 
Republic  and  of  how  the  new  regime  affected  us  at  the 
Front,  I  will  write  in  another  chapter.  In  Russia  there 
was  an  undercurrent  of  discontent  that  only  occasion- 
ally ruffled  the  surface  of  the  people's  life.  The  German- 
ophile  Ministry — the  "  German  Ministry  "  the  Russian 
newspapers  called  it  later  on — and  the  fears  that  in- 
telligent people  had  of  the  signing  of  a  separate  peace 
were  political  questions  that  the  greater  mass  of 
Russians  did  not  understand.  There  was  a  more  vital, 
immediate  matter  that  they  all  knew  of,  because  on 
account  of  it  they  all  suffered — the  matter  of  the  food 
supply. 

Russia — this  great  Russia  that  could  feed  the  world  ! 
— was  short  of  food  ;  and  very  short  of  other  com- 
modities too.  When  I  was  in  Odessa,  the  greatest 
wheat  port  in  the  south  of  Europe,  there  were  days  when 
no  bread  could  be  had.  When  I  was  in  Kiev,  the  sugar 
city  of  "  Little  Russia  "  and  one  of  the  most  important 
sugar  cities  on  the  continent,  there  were  queues  of 
people  from  two  to  four  hundred  deep  waiting  to  secure 
a  daily  allowance  of  a  few  ounces  of  sugar.  When  I  was 
in  Tiflis,  the  aeroplane  ground  there  was  closed  for  lack 
of  petrol — and  Baku  was  on  the  direct  railway  line  less 
than  a  day's  journey  away.  .  .  .  There  was  a  scarcity 
of  everything  in  Russia — food  and  clothes  and  boots 
and  petrol  and  paraffin.  What  things  there  were  were 
very  dear.  Prices  were  abnormally  high.  I  do  not 
write  of  shops  in  little  towns  near  the  zone  of  fire,  where 

146 


THE  FAMINE  IN  RUSSIA  147 

one  paid  eight  shillings  for  a  small  tin  of  ordinary 
biscuits  weighing  just  over  a  pound  and  a  half,  and  seven 
shillings  and  sixpence  for  a  small  box  of  very  ordinary 
(and  very  stale)  bon-bons.  ...  I  write  of  shops  in 
towns  far  from  the  battle  line. 

In  December,  1916,  I  paid  two  shillings  in  a  Petrograd 
shop  for  a  tiny  note-book  such  as  one  could  buy  on 
Ludgate  Hill  for  twopence.  I  paid  nearly  four  shillings 
for  a  cake  of  Pears'  soap  !  In  the  Crimea,  in  the  early 
days  of  1917,  a  tiny  chicken  cost  seven  roubles  fifty 
kopecks — more  than  ten  shillings.  I  suggested  at  the 
time  I  heard  of  this  that  the  bird  was  a  cross  between  a 
hen  and  a  guinea-fowl.  ...  In  Moscow,  in  February 
of  the  same  year,  ordinary  "  cheap  "  sausage  cost  five 
shillings  a  pound  (the  Russian  pound  is  only  14j  ounces) 
and  a  pound  of  ham  cost  six  shillings.  Sugar,  tea, 
flour,  meat  and  potatoes  could  scarcely  be  obtained  in 
Moscow  at  this  time. 

Boots  in  Petrograd  cost  anything  from  five  guineas  a 
pair  upwards.  Clothes  were  simply  impossibly  dear. 
I  know  of  a  man  (above  military  age,  be  it  noted  !)  who 
went  to  buy  a  light  overcoat  in  the  summer  of  1916. 
The  price  asked  was  £25.  .  .  .  This  man  also  wanted  a 
suit — morning  coat  and  vest  and  trousers.  The  price 
asked  was  £30.  He  then  said  that  he  would  have  an 
ordinary  lounge  suit  instead.  The  price  of  that,  said 
the  tailor,  would  be  £28.  So  my  friend  left  in  disgust. 
Afterwards  he  assured  me  that  he  would  buy  no  more 
clothes  until  the  war  was  over,  even  if  he  had  to  wear 
his  dress  suit  during  the  day  ! 

I  know,  too,  of  a  Petrograd  lady  who  wished  to  buy 
a  winter  coat  for  her  daughter,  a  young  lady  of  nine- 
teen. She  went  to  a  ladies'  tailor  in  town.  A  woman 
assistant  showed  her  a  coat  that  was  priced  at  a  thousand 
roubles.  Before  the  war,  that  sum  was  over  a  hundred 
pounds  ;  at  that  time  it  was  nearly  seventy  pounds. 
The  lady  protested  against  the  high  price. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  assistant,  "  we  can  easily  sell  this 
coat  at  a  thousand  roubles.  In  fact,  we  can  sell  it  now 
at  twelve  hundred.  .  .  .  That  lady  there,"  referring 
to  a  new  arrival,  "  will  give  twelve  hundred  roubles 
with  pleasure.     You  will  see,  Madame."  .  .  . 

The  assistant  went  to  the  other  lady,  showed  her  the 

L  1 


148     ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

coat,  told  her  the  price  was  twelve  hundred  roubles — 
and  sold  it  at  once.  The  coat  was  not  a  fur  one.  The 
trimmings  were  of  fur,  but  of  no  special  value. 

This  is  an  absolutely  true  instance.  .  .  .  Finally, 
this  lady  friend  of  mine  secured  a  tweed  coat,  not  fur- 
lined,  for  her  daughter  for  sixty  pounds.  In  London, 
during  the  war,  it  would  have  cost  three  guineas  in 
Oxford  Street.  Indeed,  it  would  have  paid  anyone 
who  required  a  new  suit  or  two  and  new  underwear  and 
boots  to  have  gone  to  London  specially  to  buy  them — 
provided  one  would  take  the  risk  of  crossing  the  North 
Sea  (or  German  ocean  !)  in  these  days  of  submarines. 

Of  other  prices  I  need  not  write,  except  to  say  that 
they  were  proportionately  high.  "  Capstan  "  tobacco — 
a  cheap  enough  tobacco  at  home — cost  twenty-five 
roubles  a  pound  in  Petrograd.  That  works  out  at 
exactly  25.  Id.  per  ounce  at  the  exchange  then  current. 
I  mention  this  brand  specially,  because  it  was  the 
English  tobacco  best  known  in  Russia.  "  Pioneer  '* 
and  "  Traveller  "  were  also  to  be  had  at  the  same  price. 
These  three  kinds  seemed  to  have  a  monopoly.  But 
tobacco  is  a  luxury  and  its  price  is  unimportant  (except, 
alas  !  to  us  who  smoke  !) ;  I  mention  it,  however,  to 
show  how  very  dear  things  were,  and  because  it  specially 
came  under  my  own  notice. 

The  trouble  was  that  people  paid  these  ridiculous 
prices,  many  of  which  had  been  forced  up  by  the  greed 
of  the  shopkeepers.  Some  people  were  very  rich — 
who  had  never  been  rich  before.  .  .  .  Incidentally, 
jewellers  never  did  such  good  business  as  they  did  then. 
.  .  .  Shopkeepers,  in  consequence  of  the  shortage  of 
supply  and  of  the  greatness  of  demand,  became  im- 
pertinently independent.  In  Kiev,  for  instance,  some 
shops  closed  their  doors  for  several  hours  each  after- 
noon, only  opening  them  again  when  the  owners  felt 
inclined.  One  would  enter  such  a  shop  and  ask  for 
such  and  such  a  thing.  Then  one  would  grumble  at  the 
price.  The  shopkeeper  would  remark  insolently,  "  You 
needn't  have  it  if  you  don't  want  it !  "  for  he  knew  that 
other  people  would  willingly  pay  the  price  he  asked. 
There  was  a  corner  of  everything  in  Russia  ;  and  this 
cornering  of  supplies  was  not  the  work  of  one  man  but 
the  collaboration  of  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  shopkeepers. 


THE  FAMINE  IN  RUSSIA  149 

True,  the  Government  fixed  the  prices  of  many  things, 
but  this  did  not  help  matters  at  all.  Shopkeepers  simply 
said  that  they  had  none,  when  one  asked  for  fixed-price 
articles.  They  knew  that  sooner  or  later  one  would  have 
to  pay  their  price. 

The  scarcity  of  meat  was  to  be  expected.  It  can  be 
easily  explained.  First,  there  were  millions  of  Russian 
peasants  who  had  been  called  to  the  colours.  These 
peasants,  in  times  of  peace,  hardly  knew  what  it  was  to 
eat  meat.  Only  twice  a  year — at  Christmas  and  at 
Easter — did  they  have  feasts  when  meat  was  served. 
Potatoes  and  kasha  and  cabbage  and  other  vegetables, 
with  black  bread,  were  their  sole  fare.  But  in  the  army 
each  man  got  three-quarters  of  a  pound  of  meat  daily. 
In  the  first  year  of  war  the  allowance  was  a  pound  a  day ; 
later  on  this  was  reduced  to  three-quarters  of  a  pound, 
and  now,  as  I  write,  to  half  a  pound  daily.  Thus  every 
day  at  least  five  or  six  million  pounds  of  meat  were 
needed  that  had  not  been  needed  before.  True,  there 
were  giant  herds  of  cattle  in  Siberia,  but  the  Trans- 
Siberian  line  was  fetching  ammunition  and  army 
material  from  Vladivostok ;  the  line  was  working 
practically  entirely  for  the  army.  True,  there  were 
giant  flocks  of  sheep  in  the  Caucasus,  but  the  railway 
lines  there  had  all  the  traffic  they  could  handle  in  the 
way  of  men  and  guns  and  munitions  and  army  stores 
for  the  regiments  on  the  Caucasian  Front. 

And  there  are  other  facts  to  be  considered.  The 
supply  of  fish  was  shortened.  One  can  only  blame  the 
lack  of  railway  transport  for  this.  On  the  shores  of  the 
Caspian  there  were  places  called  "  Fish  cemeteries  " — 
where  thousands  of  tons  of  fish  rotted  in  the  absence  of 
wagons  to  take  the  supplies  to  the  towns.  The  army 
also  ate  much  fish  each  week,  and  the  Baltic  certainly 
gave  less  than  it  had  given  in  the  past. 

Then  there  were  the  refugees.  There  are  millions 
of  them  in  Russia.  I  cannot  write  "  thousands  "  ;  the 
number  was  literally  millions.  Folks  from  Poland  and 
White  Russia  and  Galicia  and  the  Baltic  Provinces  and, 
later,  Roumania.  Petrograd  and  Moscow  and  Kiev 
were  full  of  Polish  folk,  many  of  whom  were  well-to-do. 
Odessa   was   filled   with   families   who   had   fled  from 


150    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Roumania.  These  all  made  demands  on  the  nation's 
meat  supply.  The  population  of  Moscow  was  much 
greater  than  it  had  ever  been.  One  could  scarcely  find 
a  room  in  any  hotel  or  lodging-house.  The  same  applies 
to  towns  like  Petrograd  and  Kiev  and  Odessa.  In  the 
first,  indeed,  people  who  wanted  flats  advertised  in  the 
newspapers  offering  to  pay  several  hundred  roubles  to 
anyone  who  would  tell  them  of  a  vacant  logement. 
That  may  sound  incredible  ;  it  is  absolute  truth.  And 
it  is  significant  of  the  state  of  things  that  existed  that  it 
was  only  by  such  means  that  one  could  get  what  one 
wanted.  This,  also,  applied  to  the  hotels.  In  April 
of  1916  I  was  in  Petrograd  for  a  couple  of  days.  I  tried 
to  get  a  room  in  six  difierent  hotels,  but  without  success. 

"  Have  you  tried  tipping  the  head  porter  ?  "  an 
Englishman  I  know  asked,  on  my  lamenting  to  him. 

"  No,"  said  I.     "  I  will  tip  him  later." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  "  There  will  be  no  '  later  '  if  you  do 
not  tip  him  first  as  well." 

"  How  much  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  depends,"  said  he.  "  Five  roubles — ten 
roubles  if  you  want  to  make  quite  sure." 

So  I  returned  to  a  hotel  at  which  I  had  been  assured 
there  was  not  a  room  to  be  had. 

"  I  want  a  room,"  I  said  to  the  head  porter,  and  I 
gave  him  a  ten-rouble  note. 

"  At  once,  sir,"  said  he,  taking  off  his  hat  to  acknow- 
ledge my  bribe.  "  At  once  " — and  he  told  another  man 
to  take  my  luggage  up  to  room  No.  — . 

A  friend  of  mind  paid  ten  roubles  to  the  porter  at  the 
Hotel  Metropole  in  Moscow  in  order  to  secure  a  room,  but 
even  higher  tips  have  had  to  be  given. 

All  this  is  by  the  way.     To  continue — 

There  was  yet  another  governing  factor  in  the  scarcity 
of  meat.  This  was  the  prohibition  of  the  sale  of  vodka. 
This  caused  a  remarkable  wave  of  prosperity  amongst 
the  working  people  and  the  peasant  classes  who  had  not 
gone  to  war.  They  could  buy  meat,  who  had  never  bought 
much  meat  before.  From  memory  I  cannot  quote  the 
exact  figures,  but  in  the  Russian  finance  statements 
in  the  Times  Russian  supplements,  the  savings  of  the 
people,  judged  by  their  deposits  in  the  Russian  savings 
banks  had  increased  by  millions  of  roubles  per  month. 


THE  FAMINE  IN  RUSSIA  151 

Again,  I  must  write  in  millions.  The  learned  critic  of 
the  Times  who  reviewed  my  earlier  book,  "  On  the 
Russian  Front,"  accused  me — perhaps  not  unkindly — 
of  making  my  unit  a  thousand.  May  I  answer  him  now  ? 
.  .  .  How  can  I  write  of  Russia  otherwise  ?  The  land 
is  enormous  ;  millions  of  acres  does  not  express  it.  The 
army  is  a  ten-million  one.  The  distances  are  reckoned 
in  thousands  of  versts.  The  battle  front  is  a  thousand 
miles,  and  more,  in  length.  The  refugees  numbered 
millions ;  so  did  the  Russian  losses.  .  .  .  General 
Brussilov  makes  an  advance  in  Galicia.  He  takes 
300,000  men  prisoners ;  the  dead  and  wounded  numbered 
thousands  also.  The  war  costs  sixty  to  eighty  million 
roubles  every  day.  The  army  consumes  many  hundred 
million  pounds  of  food  daily.  And  ammunition — but 
when  writing  of  the  tragic  year,  1915,  my  unit  of  shells 
was  only  one.  .  .  . 

So,  then,  there  was  the  army  to  be  fed  with  meat ; 
there  were  the  increased  populations  of  the  towns  ; 
there  was  the  lack  of  railway  transport  facilities  ;  and 
there  was  the  increased  prosperity  which  turned  the 
folks  from  vegetables  to  thoughts  of  meat.  I  do  not 
know  exactly,  but  I  fancy  that  the  potato  crop  was  very 
much  decreased.  It  must  have  been.  The  women  and 
old  men  left  on  the  land  could  not  till  it  as  the  absent 
men  had  done.  Very  much  territory,  too,  was  in 
German  hands  or  was  so  near  the  Russian  lines  that  it 
could  not  be  cultivated.  This  shortage  of  potatoes  made 
some  substitute  necessary.  The  savings  from  the  vodka 
that  one  did  not  buy  made  the  purchase  of  meat,  even 
expensive  meat,  possible.  In  all  the  towns  folks  lined 
up  before  the  meat  shops  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning — some  even  went  at  midnight ! — in  order  to 
receive  their  allotted  portion  of  meat  on  such  days  as  it 
was  legal  to  purchase  meat.  Failure  to  line  up  early 
meant  failure  to  get  any  at  all. 

The  question  of  wheat  is  different.  True,  less  wheat 
was  grown  than  had  been  before  the  war,  but  the  great 
exports  had  ceased,  so  that  the  net  result  was  that 
Russia  had  more  wheat  for  herself  than  she  needed. 
This  in  spite  of  the  influx  of  the  refugees  ;  spite  of  the 
land  the  enemy  occupied.     The  trouble  in  the  case  of 


152    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

wheat  was  lack  of  transport.  The  railways  were  other- 
wise occupied,  and  much  grain  was  left  to  rot  because  it 
could  not  be  taken  away  in  the  absence  of  railway 
wagons.  But  bad  management  and  disorganisation  were 
also  much  to  blame.  Sugar,  too,  was  doubtless  produced 
in  lesser  quantities  than  in  pre-war  times.  The  sugar 
beet  was  cultivated  less  extensively.  But,  again,  the 
great  exports  of  sugar,  too,  had  ceased.  The  army  had 
enough.  At  first  each  man  received  five  pounds  per 
month  ;  later  this  ration  was  reduced  to  three  and  a  half 
pounds.  In  the  towns  the  sugar  shortage  was  acute. 
Sugar  tickets  were  issued.  Folks  had  to  wait  for  hours 
in  a  queue  before  they  could  be  served.  Visitors  in 
hotels  had  to  fill  up  a  form  to  enable  the  manager  to 
receive  sugar  for  them.  Yet  there  must  have  been  sugar 
in  the  land.  Railway  transport,  bad  management  and 
disorganisation,  and  certainly  the  greed  of  merchants  and 
retailers  were  to  blame.  .  .  .  There  seemed  to  be  no 
diminution  in  the  quantity  of  confectionery  manu- 
factured by  the  great  Moscow  firms  of  Siou,  Abrikosov 
and  Einem.  I  do  not  like  to  think  that  the  sweetening 
was  entirely  chemical.  .  .  .  When  I  was  on  my  way  to 
Tiflis  in  the  late  summer  of  1916,  I  had  to  pass  a  day  in 
Rostov-on-Don,  a  large  and  important  town  and  railway 
junction  (really  the  railway  key  to  Asiatic  Russia). 
There  was  no  sugar  in  the  cafes.  In  the  large  station 
buffet  I  ordered  tea.  The  waiter  brought  me  a  glass  of 
tea  and  a  couple  of  caramels  wrapped  in  paper  I  At 
every  other  station  on  the  journey  from  Rostov  I  had 
sweets  given  me  in  place  of  sugar  when  I  ordered  tea  or 
coffee.  These  were  a  very  poor  substitute.  When  one 
put  them  in  one's  glass  they  immediately  stuck  to  the 
foot  and,  personally,  I  never  once  was  able  to  get  them 
wholly  dissolved  before  the  signal  bell  for  the  train's 
departure  rang.  A  Russian  officer  advised  me  of  a 
better  method  than  the  placing  of  the  caramels  in  the 
tea.  This  was  to  put  the  caramel  or  other  sweet  in  one's 
mouth  at  once,  chew  it  for  a  moment — then  drink  a 
mouthful  of  tea  ;  chew  again — then  more  tea  ;  and  so 
on.  The  substitution  of  these  sweets  was  poor.  Acid 
drops  and  peppermint  flavoured  sweets  did  not  har- 
monise very  well  with  tea  or  coffee.  .  .  .  Muir  and  Mer- 
rielees,    a   huge   Anglo-Russian    store   in   Moscow — the 


THE  FAMINE  IN  RUSSIA  153 

Harrod's  of  the  town — had  a  restaurant  cafe  which  was 
always  crowded.  Perhaps  because  the  serving  girls 
were  young  and  pretty.  ...  In  January  of  1917  I 
passed  through  Moscow.  I  had  tea  in  Muir  &  Merrielees' 
buffet.  The  sugar  allowance  for  each  customer  was 
cunningly  served  in  a  small  shaped  salt-cellar  such  as 
one  associates  with  the  name  of  "  Cerebos."  To  shake 
sugar  into  one's  glass  was  a  slow  matter.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  most  customers  did  not  use  all  of  their 
allotted  portion.  .  .  .  The  others  simply  unscrewed  the 
top  and  poured  in  the  whole  allowance  at  once.  I  may 
also  mention  that  I  saw  one  very  nicely  dressed  lady 
who  did  not  eat  the  bread  given  to  her  with  a  plate  of  cold 
ham  that  she  had  ordered,  but  calmly  wrapped  it  up  in  a 
piece  of  paper  and  took  it  away  with  her.  .  .  . 

In  the  case  of  boots,  the  needs  of  the  army  is  the 
explanation  of  the  shortage.  Allowing  two  pairs  of 
boots  per  man  in  the  first  two  years  of  war,  and  that  is  a 
very  modest  estimate,  the  army  supplied  at  least  twenty 
million  pairs  of  boots  to  men  who  did  not  wear  leather 
boots  before.  The  summer  finds  these  Russian  peasants 
barefooted  ;  the  colder  days  of  autumn  and  of  spring 
see  them  with  "  Lapti,"  sandals  made  of  bark  and  fibre  ; 
the  winter  finds  them  shod  with  high-topped  boots  of 
felt,  "  Valenki,"  with  no  leather  work  at  all — simply 
boots  made  of  one  piece  of  felt.  With  the  southern  and 
the  Baltic  ports  entirely  closed  ;  with  Archangel  and 
Vladivostok  closed  to  all  save  army  traffic,  Russia  had 
to  be  served  by  native  manufacture  only,  and  the 
factories  had  all  that  they  could  do  to  turn  out  boots  for 
soldiers,  although  great  supplies  had  also  to  be  imported 
from  other  countries — America,  chiefly.  Enormous 
quantities  of  leather  were  required  for  other  purposes  ; 
the  straps  of  rifles,  the  soldiers'  belts,  the  leather  cases 
in  which  sappers'  picks  and  spades  were  carried,  the 
harness  and  saddles  for  the  army  horses,  and  the  many 
various  articles  of  leather  ware  that  formerly  came  from 
Austria  and  Germany. 

Leather  was  very  expensive.  I  paid  a  cobbler  in 
Petrograd  seventeen  shillings  for  soling  my  boots,  and 
I  had  to  pay  the  same  price  for  a  thin  belt.  There  was  a 
price  fixed  for  leather,  but  the  cobbler  assured  me  that 


154      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

he  had  none  at  all,  but  that  he  might  possibly  be  able 
to  buy  some,  in  which  case  I  would  have  to  pay  ten 
roubles.  .  .  . 

All  other  commodities  in  Russia  were  dear.  Before 
the  war  there  had  been  enormous  imports  from  Germany 
and  Austria.  These  had  ceased — although  one  found 
German  and  Austrian  goods  on  sale  in  all  the  shops.  .  .  . 
Also  with  Archangel  and  Vladivostok  closed  to  all 
except  Government  supplies,  the  only  method  of  securing 
other  goods  was  by  post.  There  were  few  goods  wagons 
on  the  Finnish  line  to  Sweden.  The  post  was  slow  and, 
worse  still,  precarious.  The  Kodak  Company  in  Petro- 
grad  in  one  day  received  nearly  nine  hundred  limit-size 
parcels  by  post.  And  other  firms  had  to  receive  their 
goods  in  this  way.  My  friend,  Mr.  Robert  Lattimore,  of 
Petrograd,  the  proprietor  of  Watkins  &  Co.,  the  English 
booksellers,  received  all  his  wares  in  post  parcels. 
And  books  weigh  very  heavy  !  But  his  prices  were  the 
cheapest  I  met  with  in  Russia.  A  shilling  book  cost 
a  rouble.  The  average  rate  of  exchange  in  1916  was 
about  fifteen  roubles  to  the  pound  sterling,  so  that  one 
bought  in  Petrograd  for  the  equivalent  of  Is.  4>d.  what 
one  had  to  pay  a  shilling  for  in  London.  But  Watkins 
and  Co.  were  rare  exceptions — the  only  ones  of  which  I 
know. 

Such  bulky  articles  as  cloth  could  not  well  come  by 
post,  so  clothing  was  very  dear.  The  great  woollen 
mills  of  Lodz  and  Warsaw  were  in  German  hands  (I 
think  they  had  always  been  German  I) ;  the  home 
factories  had  all  they  could  do  to  turn  out  clothes  for 
soldiers.  The  huge  mill  of  the  Thornton  Woollen  Mill 
Company  in  Petrograd — the  largest  in  Russia  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  largest  in  the  world — worked  exclusively 
on  army  contracts.  Enough  cloth  to  clothe  four  thou- 
sand soldiers  was  manufactured  each  day.  Also  rugs 
and  blankets  were  made  in  great  quantities.  As  much 
of  the  wool  came  from  Australia,  one  can  imagine  the 
difficulties  involved  and  the  necessity  for  an  increased 
price. 

With  the  opening  of  the  new  Alexandrovsk-Petrograd 
railway,  things  will  certainly  improve.  The  new  port  on 
the  Murman  coast  will  be  free  all  the  year,  whereas 
Archangel  was  ice-bound  for  many  weeks  each  winter. 


THE  FAMINE  IN  RUSSIA  155 

But  this  railway,  as  I  write,  is  just  completed,  and  we 
are  well  in  the  third  year  of  the  war. 

In  these  years,  1915  and  1916,  everything  in  Russia  was 
dear  except — and  this  is  the  tragedy — except  human 
life.     It  went  cheap  enough.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

The  Revolution  seed  had  been  germinating  for  many 
months.  Everyone  knew  that  from  this  seed  would 
spring  Rebellion — one  day.  Officers  said,  "  After  the 
War  "  .  .  .  .  and  they  predicted  bloody  happenings. 
The  "  After  the  War  "  Rebellion  would  differ  from  all 
previous  national  risings  in  this  respect — the  army 
would  be  on  the  people's  side.  And  this  would  ensure 
success. 

Of  all  that  happened  in  Petrograd  I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  the  main  facts,  and  I  know  how  we  at  the 
Front  received  the  news.  .  .  . 

The  session  of  the  Russian  Duma  and  of  the  Council 
of  Empire  was  suspended  on  the  12th  of  March  "  until 
April,  1917,  or  later,  on  account  of  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances." On  the  same  day  several  bakers'  shops 
in  Petrograd  were  destroyed  by  the  crowd.  Patrols 
of  Cossacks  were  in  the  streets  (and  your  average  Russian 
loves  the  Cossack  not !).  The  Revolution  seed  had 
sprouted. 

There  was  the  question  of  the  food  supply.  Matters 
had  been  going  from  bad  to  worse.  Finally  came  a 
climax.  .  .  .  M.  Milioukov,  a  well-known  Liberal,  leader 
of  the  Cadet  Party,  made  a  notable  speech  in  the  Duma 
criticising  the  insufficience  of  the  measures  taken  by 
the  Government  towards  the  victualling  of  the  towns 
and  industrial  centres.  He  insisted  upon  the  urgency 
of  supplying  food  for  the  people,  who  were  on  the  verge 
of  revolt.  The  members  of  the  Duma  were  almost 
unanimously   on   his  side.     Following  this   speech  the 

166 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  REPUBLIC         157 

crowds  in  Petrograd  and  Moscow  carried  on  manifesta- 
tions in  the  streets.  .  .  .  The  Government  decided  to 
close  the  Duma.  On  the  previous  evening  a  Council 
Extraordinary  had  been  summoned  by  Prince  Galitzine. 
A  notable  absentee  was  M.  Protopopov,  the  Minister 
of  the  Interior,  whose  deliberate  mismanagement  of  the 
food  supply  had  brought  about  the  crisis.  The  question 
of  food  was  further  discussed.  .  .  .  With  the  closing 
of  the  Duma,  the  workmen  left  their  factories  and 
fraternised  with  the  soldiers  in  the  streets. 

Milioukov  is  one  of  the  Russian  statesmen  whose 
name  will  have  a  very  prominent  and  honourable  place 
in  history  in  connection  with  the  Russian  Revolution 
of  March,  1917.  It  was  Milioukov  who  fearlessly  de- 
nounced Stiirmer  and  the  other  traitors  who  so  nearly 
sold  Russia  to  the  Germans  in  1916.  In  November  of 
that  year  Milioukov  made  a  famous  speech  in  the  Duma. 
In  the  Russia  that  was,  he  was  indeed  a  brave  man  who 
dared  to  speak  against  a  Minister,  no  matter  how  vile 
the  latter  might  be.  .  .  .  Milioukov  accused  Stiirmer 
and  the  decadent  religious  ^poseur,  Rasputin,  of  having 
received  bribes — of  being  in  German  pay.  And  when 
he  stated  that  Rasputin  had  helped  towards  the  appoint- 
ment of  Stiirmer  as  Foreign  Minister  (there  is  humour 
in  the  word  "  Foreign  "  .  .  .  .)  he  showed  what  every 
intelligent  person  in  Russia  knew — that  Rasputin, 
"  the  head  of  the  German  spy  system,"  was  on  such 
terms  with  the  despicable  Germanophile  Empress  that 
he  was  able  to  make  and  unmake  Ministers.  Rasputin, 
the  lover  of  the  Empress,  was  the  most  formidable 
power  in  Russia.  .  .  .  Stiirmer  went  from  office  as  the 
result  of  this  speech.  Rasputin  was  shot  like  a  dog  six 
weeks  later.  ("  Assassinated  "  sounds  bad  :  Rasputin's 
removal  was  an  act  of  grace.)  Russia  breathed  more 
freely.  But  there  were  other  traitors  still  in  office. 
The  despised  Empress  still  remained.  The  weak  Tsar 
was  still  in  charge  of  all  the  armies.  There  was  only 
one  thing  to  be  done.  A  clean  sweep  of  all  the  "  Dark 
Forces  "  had  to  be  made. 

On  March  14  news  came  to  us  at  the  Front  of  the 
crisis  in  Petrograd.  We  heard  of  the  appointment  of 
new    Ministers.     That    of    His    Excellency    Alexander 


158      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Ivanovitch  Goutchkov  to  be  Minister  of  National 
Defence  was  particularly  interesting  to  us  of  the  Second 
Army.  Mr.  Goutchkov  was  known  to  all  of  us  as  he 
had  been  in  charge  of  the  Red  Cross  Organisation  in 
our  army.  ...  I  heard  the  news  in  the  dingy  telegraph 
room  of  a  little  railway  station  that  lay  ten  miles  from 
my  camp.  Another  officer  and  I  had  sledged  across  the 
plain  to  hear  the  news.  We  met  men  from  other  regi- 
ments there.     We  were  all  quite  cheerful. 

The  abdication  of  the  Tsar  (and  it  was  a  forced 
abdication)  took  place  on  March  15,  but  the  news  did 
not  reach  us  until  Saturday,  March  17.  I  announced 
to  my  men  the  coming  of  Michael  Alexandrovitch  as 
Emperor,  in  accordance  with  an  Army  Order,  also  that 
Nicolai  Nicolaievitch  had  again  been  appointed  Com- 
mander-in-Chief of  all  the  Russian  Armies.  But  on 
March  16  came  the  Republic.  We  got  the  news  on 
Sunday,  March  18,  and  on  the  23rd  we  took  the  oath 
to  serve  under  the  new  regime.  These  events  all  came 
in  quick  succession.  No  sooner  had  we  heard  of  one 
change  and  discussed  it  than  a  new  order  came  to  us 
upsetting  all  the  others.  .  .  .  There  was  absolutely  no 
trouble.  We  changed  from  soldiers  of  the  Tsar  to 
soldiers  of  the  Republic  quite  automatically.  No  one 
said  a  dissenting  word.  The  officers  all  knew  that  such 
a  change  was  bound  to  come  :  it  had  simply  come  sooner 
than  they  had  expected.  And  the  soldiers  ?  There 
was  discipline  in  the  Russian  Army.  They  accepted 
the  change  just  as  they  would  have  obeyed  an  order  to 
stand  at  attention. 

I  had  to  make  the  announcements  personally  to  my 
own  Command,  explaining  simply  what  this  new  change 
meant.  I  see  that  scene  now.  ...  A  huge  "  Zem- 
lyanka  "  (earthen  hut)  where  the  men  lived  below  the 
level  of  the  ground.  The  floor  littered  with  the  husks 
of  sunflower  seed.  A  stale  smell  of  machorka  and  my 
men  standing  in  two  double  lines  fronting  each  other, 
but  with  all  their  eyes  turned  on  me.  I  told  them  that 
there  was  no  Tsar.  I  told  them  what  "  Republic  " 
meant.  They  punctuated  my  phrases  with  "  I  under- 
stand, your  high  nobility.'*  ....  But  their  faces  were 
expressionless.  They  listened  and  heard  and  accepted 
without  emotion. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  REPUBLIC         159 

*'  Do  you  understand  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Precisely  so.  I  understand,  your  high  nobility," 
each  man  shouted. 

And  that  was  all.  I  went  away — marvelling.  The 
Revolution  had  come — and  all  was  calm.  We  did  not 
know  of  what  little  fighting  there  was  in  Petrograd. 
It  was  some  weeks  later  before  we  knew  of  how  the 
prisons  had  been  set  on  fire — after  the  prisoners  had  been 
set  free  ;  of  how  the  police  had  been  abolished  (they  were 
sent  off  to  serve  in  the  army)  and  of  how  students  and 
others  now  formed  a  militia  to  take  the  policemen's 
place. 

I  must  digress  for  a  moment  to  tell  of  what  happened 
in  Moscow.  An  officer  friend  of  mine,  on  leave  of  ab- 
sence, saw  the  incident.  There  was  an  unruly  crowd. 
A  student  militia-man  (he  was  in  civilian  clothes  but 
he  wore  an  armlet  on  his  sleeve)  was  knocked  down  in 
a  scuffle. 

"  Police  !  "  he  called,  appealing  to  the  absent  powers 
for  help.     "Police!  ....  Police!" 

When  the  Staff  Order  came  for  us  to  take  the  oath 
to  the  Republic,  I  ordered  my  men  to  march  to  a  little 
bomb-proof  church  near  our  lines.  We  assembled  at 
ten  o'clock  at  night.  The  earthen-floored  room  was 
damp  and  draughty.  Flickering  candles  burned  before 
the  coloured  pictures  of  the  Saints.  We  stood  before 
the  wooden  altar.  The  army  priest,  clad  in  his  gorgeous 
gold-embroidered  robes,  read  the  oath  word  by  word 
and  we,  holding  up  two  fingers  of  our  right  hands, 
repeated  each  word  after  him.  Then  he  held  his  Cross 
for  the  Orthodox  soldiers  to  kiss.  The  men  signed  their 
names  on  a  sheet  of  foolscap  underneath  a  type- written 
copy  of  the  oath.  One  sheet  was  for  Orthodox  soldiers, 
one  for  Catholics,  one  for  Lithuanians,  one  for  Moham- 
medans and  one  for  Jews.  The  oath  in  each  case  was, 
with  a  few  alterations  of  words,  exactly  the  same.  It 
was  issued  by  Prince  Lvov  on  March  20.  The  following 
are  some  of  the  passages  : — 

"  I  swear  on  my  honour  as  an  officer  (soldier)  and 
citizen,  and  I  promise  before  God  and  my  conscience  to 
be  true  and  unchangingly  devoted  to  the  Russian 
Republic  as  to  my  native  land. 

"  I  swear  to  serve  it  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood,  to 


160      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

help  with  all  my  strength  to  the  glor}^  and  success  of 
the  Russian  Empire.  ...        "* 

"  Charged  with  the  duty  of  serving,  I  will  fulfil  my 
duties  with  all  my  power  and  strength,  having  thoughts 
exclusively  for  the  advantage  of  the  Empire,  and  not 
sparing  my  life  for  the  sake  of  the  welfare  of  the  native 
land. 

"  I  swear  to  obey  all  those  established  in  rank  above 
me,  showing  them  full  obedience  on  all  occasions  when 
my  duty  as  an  officer  (soldier)  and  citizen  is  required 
for  the  native  land. 

"  I  swear  to  be  an  honest,  conscientious  and  brave 
officer  (soldier)  and  not  to  break  my  oath  out  of  consider- 
ation for  kindred,  friends  or  foes. 

"  In  conclusion  :  I  have  given  my  oath,  making  the 
sign  of  the  Cross,  and  signing  my  name." 

The  Mohammedan  oath  said  :  "I  conclude  this,  my 
oath,  by  kissing  the  all-glorious  Koran  and  signing  my 
name." 

The  Jew's  oath  omitted  the  words  "  making  the  sign 
of  the  Cross." 

Grigorie,  who  is  a  pagan,  took  the  oath  with  the 
Orthodox  men.  He  stood  on  my  left.  When  the  priest 
ordered  us  to  hold  up  the  first  two  fingers  of  the  right 
hand,  poor  Grigorie  turned  to  me  in  anxiety.  .  .  .  But 
I  assured  him  that  it  would  be  quite  all  right,  so  up 
went  Grigorie's  hand  and  I  saw  the  poor  stumps  where 
once  his  first  two  fingers  had  been  before  the  German 
bullet  came.  ... 

And  then  we  went  off — and  the  oath  was  forgotten, 
as  I  shall  tell  you  later.  .  .  .  The  next  day  the  men  wore 
red  ribbon  on  their  breasts.  Old  coloured  shirts  and 
Red  Cross  flags  were  torn  up  to  supply  the  necessary 
material.  Soldiers  tied  red  cloth  on  their  rifles  and  on 
their  lances  and  on  their  swords.  All  were  republican 
and  enthusiastic.  .  .  .  They  were  beginning  to  mis- 
understand "  Freedom."  ....  Soldiers  whose  medals 
had  the  ex-Tsar's  head  on  them,  turned  them  so  that 
the  other  side  was  shown  and  the  ex-Tsar's  head  was 
hidden.  The  "  Marseillaise "  was  sung — with  not 
absolutely  correct  notes,  and  with  rhymeless  words. 

And  everyone  became  "  Comrade."  The  Russian 
soldiers  used  to  address  each  other  as  "  Zemlak  " — 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  REPUBLIC         161 

"  Fellow-countryman  " — "  Mate,"  indeed.  But  now 
"  Zemlak  "  was  forgotten.  "  Tovarish  "  ("  Comrade  ") 
took  its  place. 

The  Red  Flag  hung  above  the  soldiers'  dug-outs. 
It  hung  from  wagons  and  gun-carriages.  Even  the 
horses  were  decked  as  good  republicans.  The  soldiers 
travelling  by  train  hung  out  the  universal  flag — to  the 
consternation  of  the  railway  men  !  .  .  .  .  An  Army 
Order  prohibited  the  display  by  soldiers  of  the  red  flag 
on  the  railway  line  because  of  the  trouble  it  was  causing 
the  bewildered  officials  !  .  .  .  . 

And  the  red  flag  meant  danger.  At  first  we  joked 
about  it.  We  called  it  the  "  Danger  Sign  "  in  jest. 
But  soon  we  did  not  joke.  The  coming  of  Freedom  on 
the  Russian  Front  threatened  to  become  a  very  serious 
affair.  .  .  . 


M 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MY   COMMAND 1 

I  BELIEVE  that  I  am  the  only  British  subject  in  sole 
charge  of  a  company  of  men  on  the  Russian  Front. 

My  command  is  very  representative  of  the  many 
corners  of  Great  Russia.  In  my  otriad  I  have  Russians 
and  "  Little  Russians,"  Armenians  and  Poles  and  Finns, 
a  couple  of  Jews — one  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed  and 
the  other  with  dark  hair  and  eyes — and  a  Tartar,  and 
men  from  far  Siberia,  including  Grigorie,  my  denstchik 
— my  orderly — who  is  of  Chinese  countenance  and  who 
is  a  pagan — and  the  "  whitest "  man  I  know.  I  am 
their  Commander,  but  I  play  other  roles  as  well.  I  am 
chief  engineer,  for  instance,  judge  and  jury,  and  a  sort 
of  parent  to  these  boy-like  men.  They  come  to  me  for 
advice  ;  they  appeal  to  me  to  settle  sundry  matters  ; 
they  show  their  boots  and  clothes  and  ask  me  if  I  will 
grant  them  new  attire.  .  .  .  But  be  it  noted  that  I  am 
writing  now  of  pre-revolution  days  before  the  Russian 
men  were  drunk  with  freedom.  .  .  .  They  still  come 
to  me  with  requests,  but  we  officers  are  no  longer  free. 
We  have  to  grant  more  often  than  refuse.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  I  get  letters  from  the  men's  wives,  written 
by  the  professional  letter- writer  of  their  villages,  begging 
me  to  send  their  husbands  home  to  do  some  needed 
work  in  the  fields.  "  The  men  have  all  gone,"  the 
letters  say,  "  and  I  must  have  help  to  till  my  holding. 
Please,  your  Excellency,  send  Ivan  Ivanov  to  his 
home."  Then  this  is  an  example  of  other  letters  I  have 
received — "  I  am  the  fiancee  of  Boris  Borisov.  I  wish 
to  be  married  to  him.  Please,  your  Excellency,  send 
him  home  to  me."     The  trouble  was  that  Boris  was 

162 


MY  COMMAND— I  168 

already  wed.  I  told  him  so  and  pointed  out  the  crime 
of  bigamy.  This  was  in  April.  "  But  now  we  are  free, 
Mr.  Commander  !  "  said  he.  .  .  . 

In  matters  of  justice  one  has  to  be  a  Solomon.  I  am 
thinking  not  so  much  of  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  as  of 
the  simplicity  of  his  spoken  judgments.  .  .  .  One  has 
to  speak  as  one  would  speak  to  little  naughty  boys. 
For  instance  a  supply  of  new  overcoats  came  to  my 
command.  I  ordered  the  chief  soldier — a  sort  of  under- 
officer — to  inspect  the  men  and  to  give  a  new  overcoat 
to  each  man  whose  other  one  was  old  or  ragged  or  worn 
out.  Three  men  had  very  good  overcoats,  but  they 
asked  for  new  ones  just  the  same,  declaring  that  their 
present  coats  had  been  bought  by  them  personally,  and 
paid  for  with  their  own  money,  and  were  therefore  their 
private  property.  They  appealed  to  me  as  the  High 
Court,  the  chief  soldier,  as  district  magistrate,  having 
refused  to  listen  to  their  claims.  I  received  them  in 
my  room.  They  stood  awkwardly  in  a  line  in  front  of 
me,  clutching  their  caps  with  nervous  fingers. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  tell  me  all." 

"  Your  nobility  !  "  they  said  in  unison  and  proceeded 
to  speak  in  chorus. 

"  I  cannot  listen  to  three  men  at  once,"  said  I. 
"  One  of  you  at  a  time,  please." 

They  conferred  in  whispers  for  a  moment. 

"  Your  nobility,"  one  man  said,  "  we  bought  these 
coats  ourselves  with  our  own  money  and  therefore  they 
are  ours.  Other  soldiers  get  new  overcoats  so  we  would 
like  to  have  new  ones  too.  We  do  not  want  to  wear 
out  our  own  property." 

"  Where  did  you  buy  these  coats  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  In  a  shop  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Tell  me  " — severely — "  where  did  you  buy  these 
coats  ?  " 

They  conferred  for  a  moment,  then  the  spokesman 
summoned  up  courage  and  told  me  all.  They  bought 
them  from  three  sick  soldiers.  They  saw  these  men 
en  route  to  hospital,  on  foot.  They  noted  the  goodness 
of  their  coats.  They  decided  to  purchase  them.  Three 
roubles  was  the  price  finally  decided  on  for  each — also 

M  2 


164    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

their  old  overcoats  were  thrown  in  with  the  money.  .  .  . 
The  sick  men  would  receive  new  overcoats  from  the  Red 
Cross  authorities  when  the  worn-out  condition  of  their 
newly-exchanged  coats  was  noted. 

"  And  so,  your  nobility,  the  coats  are  ours." 

"  Who  gave  the  sick  men  their  original  coats — these 
ones  that  you  are  wearing  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  They  were  kazoni — government,"  the  men  answered, 
again  speaking  in  chorus. 

"  Ah  !  .  .  .  .  They  were  kazoni.  .  .  .  Then  they  did 
not  belong  to  the  sick  men  ?  " 

"  Not  so,  no,  your  nobility,"  they  answered. 

"  Now — listen — one  cannot  sell  what  does  not  belong 
to  one  ?  " 

"  Not  so,  no." 

"  The  sick  men  did  wrong  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so." 

"  And  they  are  guilty  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so." 

"  But  perhaps  they  did  not  ask  you  to  buy  their 
overcoats  ?     Perhaps  you  asked  them  to  sell  them  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so.     We  asked  them.     Our  own " 

"  You  asked  them  to  sell  what  did  not  belong  to 
them  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so." 

"  Then  you  did  wrong,  too  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  You  gave  them  the  idea  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  You  made  them  sell  what  was  kazoni.  You  made 
them  like  thieves  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  They  are  guilty — and  you  are  guilty,  too  ?     True  ?  " 

"  Tak  tochno — precisely  so,  your  nobility  " — this 
somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  Now,"  I  continued,  "  I  will  give  you  each  a  new 
overcoat." 

"  Very  much  obliged,  your  nobility." 

"  And  you  will  give  the  kazoni  coats  to  me.  I  am  a 
kazoni  man,  and  if  you  give  them  to  me  you  give  them 
to  the  Government.  A  kazoni  coat  is  always  a  kazoni 
coat." 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility." 


MY  COMMAND— I  165 

"  Then  the  Government  receives  the  coats  which 
belong  to  it  and  you  each  receive  a  nice  new  overcoat 
from  me." 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility.  Very  much  obliged." 
Then,  "  And  our  money,  your  nobility  ?  " 

"  When  men  do  wrong  they  are  punished.     True  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility.     Entirely  true." 

"  They  go  to  prison.     True  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility." 

"  But  if  they  do  not  go  to  prison,  they  pay  money. 
True  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility." 

"  Very  well.  You  did  wrong.  You  will  not  go  to 
prison.  You  will  pay  money  instead.  You  have  already 
paid  three  roubles  each.     That  is  your  fine." 

"  But,  your  nobility,  the  sick  men  will  receive  new 
overcoats  and  we  gave  them  three  roubles  each  !  " 

"  These  three  roubles,"  said  I  learnedly,  "  are  com- 
pensation for  their  damaged  moral  character." 

"  We  are  not  able  to  understand,  your  nobility,"  said 
the  three  men  in  chorus. 

Which  was  not  surprising.  My  logic  was  at  fault 
somewhere,  but  not  being  really  a  Solomon  I  decided 
to  end  the  matter  there.  "  Nothing  more,"  I  said, 
and  the  three  accomplices  before  the  act — and  during  it 
— were  thus  dismissed. 

Another  day  my  men  came  to  me  with  a  request  that 
they  might  be  allowed  to  play  cards.  They  did  not  add 
"  for  money,"  but  I  knew  quite  well  that  they  wished 
to  gamble — even  on  their  seventy-five  kopecks  a  month, 
so  I  refused  permission.  There  had  been  fights  over 
card  games  in  the  past,  and  I  was  anxious  to  preserve 
peace  in  my  camp.  The  men  went  away  sorrowfully. 
Later  on  a  deputation  arrived  and  assured  me  that  the 
men  in  the  trenches  played  cards  when  not  on  duty. 

"  I  will  speak  to  the  Command  at  three  o'clock,"  said 
I,  and  at  three  they  were  assembled. 

"  Attention !  "  shouted  the  chief  soldier  when  I 
approached. 

"  Good  health,  brothers  !  " 

A  moment's  pause.  Then  the  answering  shout,  "  We 
wish  you  health,  your  nobility  !  " 


166    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  Command,"  said  I,  "  you  wish  to  play  cards  ?  " 
"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility  " — this  in  unison. 
"  The   soldiers   in   the   trenches   play   cards  ?  .  .  .  . 
True  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  your  nobility.     True." 
"  It  is  allowed  to  play  cards  for  money  there  ?  " 
"  Precisely  so.     It  is  allowed,  your  nobility." 
"  Oh,  very  well.     I  am  your  friend.     I  will  do  all  I 
can  for  you.     Unfortunately,  it  is  not  allowed  to  play 
cards  here.     You  must  go  to  the  trenches  if  you  want 
to  play.     I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you.     I  am  your  friend. 
If  each  man  who  wishes  to  play  cards  will  give  his  name 
to  my  secretary,  I  will  go  myself  to  the  Staff  to-morrow 
morning  and  I  will  arrange  for  him  to  be  sent  to  the 
trenches  where  he  can  play  cards  when  off  duty.     Now 
— give  your  names  to-day." 

No  names  were  given,  and  I  heard  no  more  about 
the  matter  until  some  weeks  after  the  Revolution.  My 
judgment  then  was  quite  different.  "  Don't  ask  me," 
I  said  on  the  request  to  be  allowed  to  play  cards  being 
renewed.  And  they  understood  that  what  I  meant 
was  "  Do  as  you  like — so  long  as  I  know  nothing  about 
it."     That,  too,  is  significant.  .  .  . 

And  yet  again,  the  question  of  the  killing  of  a  pig. 
.  .  .  .  We  had  three  small  ones.  The  men  thought 
that  one  might  well  be  killed  for  Easter  Sunday's  dinner. 
I  thought  not.  Big  pigs  were  very  expensive  these 
days  ;  it  seemed  a  pity  to  slay  a  little  one.  The  men 
did  not  agree.  (This  was  also  after  the  Revolution. 
Before  that  happened  the  men  might  not  have  agreed, 
but  they  would  never  have  dared  to  say  so.)  Pork  for 
the  holiday  sounded  very  good.  Candidly,  fresh  pork 
sounded  good  to  me,  too.  But  when  I  thought  of  the 
wee  porker  and  of  my  men,  the  words  "  fresh  meat  " 
sounded  very  small. 

A  deputation  came  to  see  me  on  the  matter.  The 
chief  witness  for  me,  thought  I,  is  Master  Pig  himself. 
So  I  marched  the  men  off  with  me  to  our  stables  in  a 
corner  of  which  the  three  pigs  lived. 
"  Which  one  do  you  want  ?  "  I  asked. 
This  was  a  matter  that  had  not  been  decided.  They 
wanted  a  pig — they  did  not  care  which.  But  they 
answered  me,  "  That  one  there,  Mr.  Commander." 


MY  COMMAND— I  167 

"  Fetch  it  out  into  the  open,"  said  I. 

They  brought  it  out  squeahng.  The  squeal  was  the 
biggest  thing  about  it,  unless  one  considered  the  amount 
of  dirt  it  had  per  square  inch.     It  was  a  very  little  pig. 

"  How  many  men  will  be  here  for  dinner  on  Easter 
Sunday  ?  "  I  asked.  The  men  on  duty  would  not  be 
present.  They  considered  for  a  while,  then  they  told 
me,  "  Sixty-five." 

"  And  I  also,"  said  I.  "  Sixty-six.  ...  And  Grigorie, 
sixty-seven.  .  .  .  And  Marcus  (my  cook)  sixty-eight. 
....  And  I  may  have  guests — seventy.  .  .  .  We  will 
say  seventy.  Now  this  half  here,"  said  I,  laying  my 
riding-switch  across  the  pig's  back,  "  will  go  to  thirty- 
five  men.  And  you  cannot  eat  the  bones  and  the  skin 
and  the  tail  and  some  other  parts.  .  .  .  True  ?  " 

"  True.     Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  Now — hold  him  steady  ! — this  half  is  for  thirty- 
five  men  ;  and  this  bit  will  be  for  eighteen  men  and  this 
for  seventeen — eighteen  and  seventeen  are  the  halves 
of  thirty-five.  .  .  .  And  this  bit  here  will  do  for  nine 
men.  And — but  you  see  now  how  little  meat  you  will 
have.     True  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander.  .  .  .  True,"  they 
assured  me. 

"  So  we  will  wait  until  it  is  a  big  pig  and  we  will  all 
have  a  big  piece  of  meat.     That  will  be  better." 

"  Precisely  so,  that  will  be  better,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  Now  put  him  back,"  said  I. 

And  this  matter  was  also  ended  amicably,  and  the 
pig  went  back  to  his  abode,  there  to  grow  into  a  decent 
meal. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  I  would  ask  one  of  my  men. 

He  would  fidget  uneasily.  Some  of  the  men  could 
not  tell  me  directly.  All  they  could  say  was  the  year 
in  which  they  had  been  called  to  the  army.  "  1897  " 
.  .  .  .  "  1900  "  ....  I  had  to  subtract  these  numbers 
from  1917,  add  twenty-one — and  the  man's  age  was 
found.  Before  the  war  all  men  of  twenty-one  (with 
certain  exceptions — men  physically  unfit,  only  sons, 
etc.)  had  to  serve  in  the  army  for  nearly  three  years. 

My  men  were  really  very  much  like  boys.     Many  of 


168    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

them,  too,  were  "  negramotnie  " — illiterate  ;  they  could 
neither  read  nor  write.  And  when  I  spoke  to  them  I 
had  to  bear  this  fact  in  mind.  One  could  not  be  angry 
with  them,  no  matter  how  great  the  cause,  without 
regretting  it  afterwards.  But  with  the  coming  of  the 
new  Republic,  some  of  them  were  difficult  to  handle. 

"  You  are  free  now,"  I  told  them  one  day.  "  Many 
of  the  old  orders  no  longer  exist.  For  instance,  you 
need  not  say  '  Your  Nobility  '  or  '  Your  high  Nobility  ' 
or  '  Your  Excellence  '  when  you  speak  to  an  officer. 
'  Mr.  Captain,'  '  Mr.  Colonel,'  '  Mr.  General,'  and  so 
forth  are  what  you  will  say  now.  Also  all  officers  will 
call  you  '  You,'  not  '  Thou.'  But  remember  this : 
words  are  simply  words.  Whether  you  say  '  Your  high 
Nobility '  or  '  Mr.  Colonel,'  whether  you  say  '  Your 
Excellence,'  or  '  Mr.  General,'  whether  the  officers  say 
'  Thou  '  or  '  You  ' — this  fact  remains — before  the 
Revolution  you  were  soldiers  and  officers  were  officers — 
you  are  still  soldiers  and  officers  are  still  officers.  You 
must  always  remember  that." 

One  day  one  of  my  men  preached  mutiny  on  the 
ground  that  officers  and  men  were  now  all  equal  and 
that  no  man  had  a  right  to  give  orders  to  another.  I 
spoke  to  him  as  tactfully  and  kindly  as  I  could.  Then 
I  had  to  be  a  little  more  severe. 

"  You  are  a  'provocateur,''''  said  I.  The  Russian  word 
is  "  Provokator." 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander."  He  beamed  on 
me  and  I  marvelled  at  his  impudence. 

"  I  will  speak  to  you  later,"  said  I  and  I  sent  him  from 
my  room. 

Some  time  afterwards,  I  told  Grigorie  to  fetch  him 
to  me.     He  came  with  a  slight  swagger. 

"  You  are  a  provokator, ^^  said  I.  "I  told  you  that 
this  morning.     You  said  '  Tak  tochno  '  ?  " 

"  Tak  tochno.  .  .  .  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  honest,"  said  I.  "  Now  I  must 
punish  you " 

"  I  am  not  able  to  understand,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  I  must  punish  you  because  you  are  a  provokator. 
I  cannot  allow  provokators  in  my  command." 

"  Is  it  bad,  Mr.  Commander  ?  "  he  asked. 
,"  Very,"  said  I  seriously. 


MY  COMMAND— I  169 

"  Ah  !....!  am  not  a  provokator,  Mr.  Commander. 
....  I  thought  it  was  a  nice  word.  I  thought  you 
spoke  a  compliment,  and  I  said,  '  Tak  tochno  '".... 

"  Grigorie,"  said  I,  one  evening,  "  tell  me  what  you 
think  about  the  Revolution." 

I  often  call  Grigorie  into  my  room  for  a  chat — for  the 
pure  joy  of  seeing  the  affection  in  his  homely  face. 
(Grigorie  is  married  and  he  tells  me  that  his  wife  is  very 
pretty — so  I  know  now  that  women  read  the  hearts  and 
souls  of  men.) 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Commander,"  he  said. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Revolution  ?  "  I  repeated. 

Grigorie' s  face  twitched  nervously  and  he  grinned  and 
fidgetted,  first  on  one  foot  then  on  the  other. 

"  I  am  not  able  to  say,  Mr.  Commander,"  said  he. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  have  heard.  Tell  me  what  you 
yourself  know  of  it." 

"  I  am  not  able  to  say,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  Now,  Little  Pigeon,  don't  be  afraid.  .  .  .  Who  was 
the  Emperor  last  year  ?  " 

"  Nicolai  Alexandrovitch,  Mr.  Commander,"  said  he. 

"  He  is  not  Emperor  now.  .  .  .  You  know  that  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander.  I  know.  I  under- 
stand." 

"  Then  who  is  ?  "  said  I  to  draw  him  on. 

"  Mihail — "  he  hesitated,  speaking  in  his  thin,  feminine 
voice. 

"  No,"  said  I,  and  I  told  him  the  meaning  of  res 
publica,  of  the  president.  ...  Of  America  and  France. 
....  I  spoke  to  him  as  one  would  speak  to  a  loved 
child.  And  Grigorie  said,  "  Ah-h-h !  .  .  .  .  Now  I 
understand,  Mr.  Commander,"  and  "  Ah-h-h  !  .  .  .  . 
There,  now,  Mr.  Commander,"  and  "  Ah-h-h  !  .  .  .  I 
listen.  Now  I  understand  " — to  my  several  remarks. 
....  But — alas  !....!  will  tell  you. 

Later  on  I  heard  loud  whispers  from  Grigorie's  sleep- 
ing space  between  the  doors. 

"  I  know  very  well,"  came  the  voice  of  Grigorie,  the 
innocent,  "  Certainly  I  know  very  well.  .  .  .  But  devil 
knows  !  Nicolai  Alexandrovitch  one  day  and  Mihail 
Alexandrovitch  the  next,  and  nobody  the  third  day. 
What  could  I  say  ?....!  thought  perhaps  a  Tsar 
had  come  again  and  I  was  afraid  to  say  '  Republic' 


/ 

170    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

.  .  .  .  I  said  '  Mihail.'  ....  Devil  knows  I  knew  well 
enough.  ..." 

Oh  !     Grigorie  !  .  .  .  .  Grigorie  !  .  .  .  . 

And  this  reminds  me  of  a  peasant  soldier  who  was 
asked  what  he  thought  of  the  Republic. 

"  It  will  be  very  good,"  said  he.  "  I  think  it  will  be 
very  good — if  they  will  only  give  us  a  really  good  Tsar." 


CHAPTER  XXII 


I  HAD  my  first  trouble  with  my  men  on  April  16, 
Easter  Monday  in  the  Russian  Calendar.  That  week, 
indeed,  was  the  beginning  of  much  trouble  in  the  whole 
army.  I  do  not  know  for  certain,  but  I  rather  fancy 
my  own  men  were  the  first  to  rebel.  .  .  .  The  trouble 
arose  over  the  question  of  Soldiers'  Committees  which 
were  formed  in  April.  I  am  in  the  unfortunate  position 
of  hesitating  to  criticise  what  I  would  like  to,  but  I 
think  that  no  criticism  on  my  part  is  necessary.  The 
facts  are  sufficient. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  Easter  Monday  morning,  four  men 
came  to  my  room  without  any  previous  announcement. 
One  of  them  was  my  late  cook,  a  most  treacherous  man 
whom  I  had  been  obliged  to  remove  from  my  kitchen. 
In  peace-time  he  had  had  a  little  shop  on  the  outskirts 
of  Petrograd.  He  considered  himself  a  very  superior 
person  to  the  peasant  soldiers.  Such  men  as  he  were 
the  cause  of  all  the  unrest  that  followed  on  the  coming 
of  the  Republic.  Boisterous,  aggressive,  ignorant, 
extreme  Socialists  of  the  worst  kind.  Atheists,  men 
without  a  drop  of  patriotic  blood  in  their  bodies,  they 
were  the  noisy  leaders  who  led  the  way  for  the  simple- 
minded,  simple-hearted  peasant  soldiers  to  follow.  And 
the  percentage  of  these  workmen  malcontents  was  very 
small.  The  percentage  of  workmen  was  itself  only 
six.  .  .  . 

The  ex-cook  acted  as  spokesman,  having  formerly 
been  in  more  frequent  communication  with  me  than 
had  the  others.  He  was  very  nervous  and  he  spoke  in 
a  loud,  excited  voice. 

171 


172    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

"  We  are  the  Soldiers'  Committee,"  he  said.  "  Please, 
Mr.  Commander,  sign  this  paper,"  and  he  handed  me  a 
sheet  of  foolscap  on  which  were  many  signatures. 

Now,  I,  of  course,  had  no  idea  whatever  of  the  real 
object  of  the  visit,  so  I  simply  glanced  at  the 
paper. 

"  What  is  it  to  be  ?  "  I  asked.  "  A  concert  ?  "  and 
I  produced  some  money  from  my  pocket  as  my  sub- 
scription and  I  prepared  to  sign  the  paper. 

"  Not  so,  no,  Mr.  Commander,"  the  spokesman  cried. 
"  We  are  a  Soldiers'  Committee." 

Evidently,  not  what  I  had  thought.  "  Soldiers' 
Committee  ?  "  said  I.     "  I  do  not  understand." 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  Committee  now  to  look  after 
the  affairs  of  the  Command,"  said  my  ex-cook.  ''We 
will  see  to  the  soldiers'  food  and  clothes.  Also  we  will 
arrange  all  holidays  for  the  men.  Also  if  a  soldier  is 
bad  we  will  punish  him." 

This  was  so  amazing  that  I  thought  I  had  not  under- 
stood. I  asked  the  man  to  repeat  it.  .  .  .  There  was 
no  mistake.  I  certainly  had  heard  and  understood 
aright. 

"  Whose  idea  is  this  ?  "  said  I  to  gain  time. 

The  men  replied  in  chorus  that  every  man  had  thought 
of  it. 

"  That  cannot  be,"  I  said.  "  Each  man  could  not 
think  of  such  a  thing  at  the  same  moment.  Someone 
must  have  suggested  the  idea  to  them.  I  want  to  know 
the  name  of  the  man  who  did." 

At  this  they  called  excitedly  that  it  was  a  spontaneous 
idea. 

"  What  other  duties  will  the  Committee  undertake  ?  " 
I  asked.  ...  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  all  that 
they  had  in  mind. 

The  ex-cook,  who  was  down  on  the  paper  as  President, 
answered,  "  We  will  see  that  no  man  does  more  work 
than  another.  We  will  get  political  books  and  papers 
for  the  men.     We  will  supervise  the  Command." 

This  was  all  too  amazing  I  ....  "  And  what  will  I 
do  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  !  "  they  answered,  again  in  chorus,  "  you  will 
be  Commander  just  the  same." 

Then  they  asked  me  to  sign  the  paper  authorising 


SOLDIERS'  COMMITTEES  173 

them  to  act  as  a  Committee  in  charge  of  the  affairs  of 
the  company.  Of  course  I  refused.  Then  they  became 
very  rude — two  of  them  at  any  rate,  the  ex-cook  and  a 
newcomer  who  said  that  he  was  the  Secretary. 

At  this  I  ordered  them  to  leave  my  room  and  I  told 
them  that  I  would  deal  with  them  afterwards.  They 
went  away  speaking  loudly  to  each  other.  I  distinctly 
heard  threats  of  mutiny.  ..."  This,"  I  thought,  "  is 
a  matter  for  the  Staff,"  so  I  set  off  on  horseback  to  the 
Divisional  Staff  quarters. 

I  told  a  Staff  officer  of  the  men's  request,  and  expected 
that  he  would  be  as  surprised  as  I  was. 

"  Two  of  them  were  here  this  morning,"  said  he,  "  to 
ask  my  advice." 

"  Which  two  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  told  me.  My  ex-cook  and  the  secretary.  They 
had  left  the  Command  and  ridden  on  horseback  to  the 
Staff  without  a  word  to  the  chief  soldier  or  to  me.  I 
protested  at  this  and  said  I  must  punish  the  men,  who 
had  also  been  guilty  of  rudeness.  The  Chief  of  Staff 
agreed.  One  soldier  would  return  to  his  former  regi- 
ment, which  was  on  a  different  part  of  the  Front ;  the 
other  would  go  to  the  trenches  for  a  while.  (The  men 
of  my  transport  had  come  from  various  regiments.  The 
majority  had  been  Life-guardsmen.)  The  first  officer 
went  away  and  the  Chief  of  Staff  told  me  to  give  the 
men  papers  discharging  them  from  my  command  for 
insolence  and  disobedience.  Doubtless  they  were  pro- 
vocateurs and  we  did  not  want  a  whole  company  to  be 
upset  on  account  of  two  soldiers. 

I  went  off,  wrote  out  the  papers,  gave  them  to  the 
two  men  and  then  went  to  speak  to  the  others.  They 
lined  up  in  front  of  me.  I  told  them  that  the  idea  of 
having  a  Committee  was  so  preposterous  that  I  scarcely 
could  believe  that  they  had  elected  one.  Then  the  two 
culprits  interrupted — tried  to  shout  me  down  and  called 
upon  all  the  men  to  refuse  to  obey  orders.  It  was 
impossible  to  deal  with  them,  so  I  went  off  in  disgust. 
An  hour  or  two  later,  when  it  was  dark,  the  chief  soldier 
came  to  me  with  a  very  long  face.  He  advised  me  to  go 
away  at  once.  The  men  were  mutinous,  he  said.  They 
were  threatening  to  arrest  me,  seize  the  money  that  they 
knew  I  had  (the  money  for  the  soldiers'  food,  fodder  for 


174     ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

the  horses  and  the  company's  expenses),  take  charge  of 
the  papers,  etc.,  etc. 

I  borrowed  a  horse — it  was  no  use  asking  for  my  own 
— and  rode  off  to  the  Staff  again.  There  I  was  told  that 
an  order  would  be  issued  in  a  day  or  two  authorising 
the  appointment  of  Soldiers'  Committees  !  .  .  .  .  My 
men  had  heard  of  the  coming  of  such  an  order  and  had 
acted  ahead  of  the  official  notice. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.  "  But  in  the  meantime  I  want 
you  to  send  military  police  to  arrest  the  two  ringleaders 
in  this  trouble." 

"  Oh  !  that  would  be  impossible,"  said  the  officer 
whom  I  had  seen  first  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

And  here  I  myself  must  censor  all  he  told  me. 

"  How  much  money  have  you  in  your  cash-box  ?  " 

"  Five  thousand  roubles,"  I  told  him. 

"  I  will  send  police  at  once  to  guard  your  quarters," 
said  he.  "  But  we  must  overlook  this  little  dispute. 
Let  the  men  have  their  Committee.  It  is  a  pity  you 
did  not  allow  it  at  first." 

"  But  I  had  no  paper  authorising  such  a  stupidity  !  " 
I  exclaimed. 

"  You  will  have  an  advance  copy  to-morrow,"  he 
said.  "  And  I  will  come  and  speak  to  the  men  myself 
and  explain  all  to  them,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

He  then  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  spend  the  night 
in  the  Staff.  ...  I  declined  his  invitation  and  set  off 
home  again.  It  was  pitch  dark.  The  track  was  deep 
in  mud  and  water.  I  had  to  trust  entirely  to  my  horse 
to  avoid  barbed  wire  and  reserve  trenches.  Rain  poured 
in  torrents — and  I  was  cold  and  wet — and  angry. 
When  I  reached  my  quarters  I  found  ten  military  police 
there,  with  rifles  and  bayonets,  and  bandoliers  of  fat 
cartridges  around  their  shoulders.  Five  of  them  rested 
in  Grigorie's  tiny  sleeping  space  while  the  other  five 
were  on  duty  outside.  They  changed  guard  every  two 
hours. 

In  the  morning  the  Staff  officer  rode  up  at  eight  o'clock. 
We  went  on  foot  to  where  my  men  lived.  They  were 
all  in  the  open  in  groups.  The  chief  soldier  lined  them 
up. 

"  Good  morning."  I  said. 


SOLDIERS'  COMMITTEES  175 

"  We  wish  you  health,  Mr.  Commander !  "  they 
shouted. 

That  sounded  very  well — but  I  knew  that  it  was  the 
military  machine  which  spoke. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  Staff  officer. 

"  We  wish  you  health,  Mr.  Lieutenant  !  "  they 
shouted. 

"  Khristos  Voskresi — Christ  is  Risen  !  "  said  the 
lieutenant. 

"  Voistinu  Voskresi — Truly  He  is  Risen  !  "  they 
answered. 

Then  he  explained  to  them  very  simply  that  they  had 
acted  too  hurriedly.  That  the  official  order  to  appoint 
a  Soldiers'  Committee  in  each  camp  was  not  yet  issued  ; 
that  I  had  acted  rightly  (sic)  and  that  now  a  paper  would 
be  given  me  and  I  would  at  once  allow  the  Committee 
to  be  formed,  and  all  would  be  well,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  . 
Then  he  read  the  notice  to  them,  telling  them  the 
duties  the  Committee  would  have.  Then  the  ring- 
leaders asked  my  pardon  and  the  lieutenant  begged 
me  to  ask  theirs  !  And  we  went  off  again  while  the 
company  shouted  out  a  farewell  in  unison. 

Every  regiment,  every  lazaret  and  every  otriad  (detach- 
ment) on  the  Russian  Front  had  its  own  Committee. 
There  were  other  Committees  formed.  Officers'  Com- 
mittees, Doctors'  Committees,  Feldshers'  (men  with  a 
certain  amount  of  medical  knowledge  but  with  no 
medical  degree)  Committees,  Military  Clerks'  Com- 
mittees. .  .  .  And  there  were  also  special  Committees 
in  each  division  for  sanitars.  Sisters  of  Charity,  Poles, 
Jews,  Americans,  Mussulmans,  Georgians,  and  men 
from  "  Little  Russia."  At  first  there  were  committee 
meetings  almost  daily.  Big  gatherings  were  held  at 
the  Divisional  Staff  or  at  the  Corps  Staff,  in  the  villages 
where  the  men  lived  when  off  trench  duty,  at  Nesveezh 
(where  the  Army  Staff  was)  and  at  Minsk,  to  which 
each  company  had  to  send  a  delegate,  or,  on  some 
occasions  two.  In  fact,  the  Russian  Army  became  a 
sort  of  multiplex  Trade  Union.  And  strikes  were 
inevitable.  .  .  . 

The  simple  Russian  soldier  of  whom  I  have  written 
so  much  of  praise  went  about  his  duties   as  usual,  but 


176    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

unfortunately  he  was  very  easily  influenced  by  the 
agitators  who  rose  up  in  every  company,  most  of  whom 
were  of  the  brand  that,  for  want  of  a  better  expression, 
I  must  call  "  Socialist  of  the  worst  kind."  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  explain  what  I  mean  by  "  Socialist  of  the 
worst  kind."  ....  These  men  were  very  ignorant. 
They  openly  preached  "  Division  of  Property  "  on  the 
simple  lines  that  if  one  man  had  an  estate  and  a  hundred 
other  men  had  not,  the  hundred  should  immediately 
confiscate  the  one  man's  property — and  devil  take  the 
hindmost !  ....  In  Petrograd  these  "  Socialists  of  the 
worst  kind "  actually  preached  the  repudiation  of 
Russia's  financial  debt  to  the  Allies.  ..."  Why  should 
we  give  anything  to  England  ?  "  they  cried.  "  Let 
England  lose  it.  We  are  not  responsible  for  what 
debts  the  Monarchy  incurred." 

In  Petrograd,  amongst  the  workmen  were  very  many 
believers  in  Germany's  virtue.  Undoubtedly  there 
were  still  very  many  German  agents  still  at  work  in  the 
Capital.  (Later  I  will  write  of  the  soldiers'  attitude 
towards  the  Germans  at  the  Front.)  The  exiled  Socialist 
Lenin  returned — via  Berlin.  A  host  of  other  extreme 
Socialists  also  returned  from  abroad.  Lenin  preached 
"  Peace  at  any  price  "  .  .  .  .  He  urged  the  workmen 
to  strike  and  thus  bring  about  a  separate  peace.  The 
"  Blue  Journal  " — a  popular  fifteen  kopeck  publication 
— published  in  May  a  cartoon  of  Lenin  and  his  followers. 
Lenin  marched  at  the  head  with  a  band  on  his  shoulders 
on  which  were  the  words  "  Peace  in  any  form."  The 
Kaiser,  leading  the  ex-Tsar  by  the  hand  (the  latter 
appeared  as  a  very  little  boy)  came  next.  "  Truth  " 
was  on  his  band  and  a  mass  of  matter  followed  that 
heading.  The  third  man  had  a  band  on  which  were  the 
words  "  Down  with  England,  France  and  America  !  !  !  " 
....  This  cartoon  was  called  "  the  latest  manifestation 
via  Berlin  ".  .  .  .  In  April  the  workmen  published  a 
statement  in  Petrograd  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George  and  M. 
Briand  were  men  of  the  "  Stiirmer  "  class — if  not  worse  ! 
And  it  was  freely  stated  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George  was  in 
German  pay  and  that  we  were  all  being  sold.  .  .  .  On 
the  contrary — it  was  also  stated  in  other  Russian  papers 
that  Lenin  was  in  German  pay  ;  that  he  had  received 
much  money  from  the  Kaiser  and  that  he  had  come  to 


SOLDIERS'  COMMITTEES  177 

Russia  solely  on  Germany's  behalf.  .  .  .  Lenin  started 
a  newspaper  called  "  Soldatskia  Pravda  "  ("  Soldiers' 
Truth  ") — in  which  he  urged  the  men  to  refuse  to 
attack.  If  the  soldiers  would  strike,  peace  was  certain 
to  come  at  once.  Why  this  journal  was  allowed,  God 
only  knows.  One  of  my  own  men  received  it  regularly 
by  army  post.  ...  I  spoke  to  a  Staff  Colonel  one  day 
about  Lenin's  newspaper.  "  Free  Russia  !  "  he  answered 
by  way  of  explanation.  "  But  to  urge  the  soldiers  not 
to  obey  their  officers  !...."  "  Free  Russia  !  "  he 
answered — then  he  questioned  me  as  to  how  a  Russian 
might  become  an  English  officer.  .  .  . 

In  Petrograd  America  and  France  were  quoted  by 
well-meaning  folk  as  model  republics. 

"  What !  France  ?  "  the  workmen  cried.  "  Middle- 
class,  reactionary  France  !  .  .  .  .  And  America  !  .  .  .  . 
middle-class  !  .  .  .  .  We  will  show  the  world  what  kind 
of  a  republic  is  the  best.  Ours  will  be  superior  to  all 
other  republics." 

Alas  !  .  .  .  .  Alas  !  .  .  .  .  And  these  workmen  num- 
bered less  then  six  per  cent,  of  all  the  Russian  population. 

A  Russian  judge  spoke  to  me  seriously. 

"  In  our  army,"  he  said,  "  six  hundred  and  sixty-five 
men  in  each  thousand — 66j  per  cent. — are  illiterate. 
And  the  proportion  of  all  the  illiterates  in  all  Russia  is 
even  more.  And  we  have  heathen — pagans  amongst 
our  subjects  here,  white  men  who  know  not  God — and 
we  have  a  Republic  in  which  the  few  ignorant  dupes  of 
German  lies  will  lead  and  all  the  others  will  follow  like 
sheep." 

So  Committees  came  into  force.  The  Russian  soldier 
had  been  given  a  very  good  inch  ;  the  Committees 
proceeded  to  demand  an  over-measure  ell.  They  asked 
— and  they  received.  They  asked  again — and  again 
they  received.  I  will  tell  of  some  of  the  concessions 
granted  to  them. 

Immediately  after  the  coming  of  the  Republic,  an 
order  was  issued  by  the  War  Minister  that  in  future  (1) 
soldiers  would  not  be  referred  to  as  "  Nizhni  Tchine  " — 
"  Inferior  rank,"  but "  soldat  "— "  soldier."  (2)  Soldiers 
would  in  future  address  their  officers  as  "  Gospodin 
General  "  ("  Mr.  General,")  "  Mr.  Colonel,"  "  Mr.  Doc- 

N 


178      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

tor,"  etc.,  instead  of  "  Your  Excellence,"  "  Your  high 
Nobility,"  and  "Your  Nobility."  (3)  Officers  would 
no  longer  address  soldiers  as  "  Te "  ("  Thou "),  but 
as  "  V'we  "  ("  You").  (One  used  the  second  person 
singular  in  Russian  when  speaking  to  one's  wife,  or 
when  praying  to  God,  or  when  addressing  servants.) 
(4)  Soldiers  would  in  future  be  allowed  to  smoke  in  the 
streets,  visit  freely  all  public  places,  and  ride  in  the 
interior  of  tramway  cars.  Formerly  soldiers  travelled 
on  the  end  open  platform  of  tramway  cars.  They  were 
not  allowed  to  go  into  the  car  itself. 

All  these  reforms  were  excellent.  The  Russian  soldier 
was  undoubtedly  very  ill-treated  in  former  times.  The 
second  person  singular  ought  not  to  have  been  used  to 
the  men  who  were  giving  their  lives  for  their  country  ; 
it  was  a  sign  of  something  akin  to  contempt.  .  .  .  The 
"  Your  Excellence  "  and  "  Your  High  Nobility  "  phrases 
which  he  had  to  use  to  every  officer  and  bureaucrat 
were  further  signs  of  the  servility  of  his  position.  So 
was  the  term  "  Nizhni  Tchine."  And  it  was  a  scandal 
that  any  man  in  civilian  clothes — no  matter  how  un- 
clean ! — could  enter  a  tramway  car  and  sit  down,  while 
the  Russian  soldiers  were  treated  very  much  like  dogs. 

Then  in  quick  succession  came  the  following  reforms 
and  proclamations  : — 

(1)  Abolition  of  corporal  punishment. 

(2)  All  deserters  who  had  been  sentenced  to  hard 
labour  would  be  released  from  their  punishment  and 
sent  back  to  the  Front. 

(3)  Each  regiment,  otriad  (detachment),  lazaret,  etc., 
would  have  its  own  Soldiers'  Committee. 

(4)  Soldiers  could  go  everywhere  with  the  freedom  of 
a  civilian.  They  could  also  travel  second  or  even  first 
class  in  trains  if  they  cared  to  pay  the  difference  between 
the  third-class  fare  (all  soldiers  travelled  third  class 
free  of  charge)  and  that  of  the  higher  class  in  which 
they  wished  to  travel. 

(I  know  of  some  officers  who  bought  first-class  tickets 
for  several  of  their  most  untidy  men  and  sent  them  on  a 
journey  for  the  joy  of  shocking  the  civilian  first-class 
passengers.  .  .  .) 

(5)  Soldiers'  pay,  which  had  been  50  kopecks  per 
month  in  peace-time  and  which  was  75  kopecks  per 


SOLDIERS'  COMMITTEES  179 

month  in  time  of  war,  would  in  future  be  tenfold — 
5  roubles  in  peace-time,  and  7  roubles  50  kopecks  in 
war-time. 

(This  also  was  excellent.  Wages  of  a  little  more 
than  a  halfpenny  a  day  were  not  generous.  The  rouble 
had  so  far  declined  in  value  that  in  1916  the  men's 
weekly  wage  was  equivalent  to  threepence,  and  the 
purchasing  power  of  a  rouble  had  still  further  declined 
so  that  the  75  kopecks  were  really  worth  not  more  than 
sixpence.) 

(6)  Jews  would  be  admitted  as  officers.  (No  Jew 
was  an  officer  in  the  Russian  Army,  with  the  exception 
of  doctors  and  dentists,  of  whom  very  many  were  Jewish.) 

"  More !  More  !  "  cried  Lenin  and  his  followers. 
On  May  24,  a  further  order  was  issued  by  the  new  Minister 
of  War,  Kerensky,  who  had  succeeded  Mr.  Goutchkov. 
The  following  are  briefly  the  eighteen  reforms  announced 
in  the  prekas  : — 

(1)  One  law  for  all — soldiers  and  civilians. 

(2)  Soldiers  may  be  members  of  whatever  organisa- 
tion, company  or  union  they  wish,  whether  political, 
national,  religious,  economic  or  professional. 

(3)  Each  soldier  when  not  on  duty  may  speak,  read 
and  write  freely  and  openly  his  political,  religious,  social 
and  other  views. 

(4)  Soldiers  need  not  attend  the  Russian  Church 
unless  they  wish. 

(5)  Soldiers  may  write  letters  with  the  freedom  of 
civilians. 

(6)  Soldiers  may  order  whatever  newspapers,  etc., 
they  wish  to  receive  by  post,  giving  their  army  address. 

(7)  Soldiers,  with  the  exception  of  those  of  the  active 
army,  may  wear  civilian  dress  when  off  duty. 

In  towns  near  the  position  and  included  in  the  battle 
area,  though  not  near  the  zone  of  fire,  the  Commander 
may  grant  permission  to  his  men  to  wear  civilian  dress 
when  not  on  duty.  (Such  a  town  is  Minsk.  The  sol- 
diers there  are  considered  as  belonging  to  the  active 
army.) 

(8)  All  soldiers  must  treat  their  fellows  with  mutual 
trust,  confidence  and  civility. 

(9)  The  abolition  of  the  special  phrases  used  by  soldiers 

N  2 


180    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

when   answering   their   officers.     (The   Russian   soldier 
had  an  official  language  of  his  own)  : 

Old  Style.                                               New  Style. 
"TakTochno"    ...  "Precisely  "Da" "Yes." 

so." 
"NikakNyet"    ...   "  Not  so,  no."    "  Nyet  "        ..."No." 
"  Ne  mogu  Z'Nat  "    "I     am     not     "  Ne  Z'Naoo  "    "  I  do  not  know." 

able         to 

know." 
"  Rad  Staratsia  " . . .   "I    am    glad     "  Postaraoos  "    "I  endeavour  (to 

to  endeavour  do  my  best )." 

(to   do   my 

best)." 

(These  answers  are  given  by  the  soldiers  on  their 
officers  saying  "  Thank  you  "  to  them)  : 

"  Dravia  Zhelaoo  "    "I  wish  you     "  Z'Dravstvu-  "  Good  morn- 
health."  eete" ing." 

etc.  etc. 

(10)  Soldiers  need  not  act  as  denstchiks — orderlies — 
unless  they  wish.  Officers  may  have  orderlies  to  attend 
to  their  horses  and  to  accompany  them  when  on  horse- 
back, driving,  etc. 

(Officers  were  free  to  have  a  civilian  man-servant,  or 
when  no  men  were  available,  they  could  engage  a 
peasant  woman  or  domestic  servant.) 

(11)  If  a  soldier  acts  as  denstchik  he  must  also  work  as 
an  ordinary  soldier.  (Officers  must  pay  him  additional 
money  for  his  services  to  them  personally.) 

(12)  Soldiers  when  not  on  duty  may  or  may  not 
salute  officers — just  as  they  like. 

(13)  When  off  duty,  soldiers  may  go  for  walks  where 
they  like.  The  Commander  must  give  them  a  written 
Laissez-passer. 

In  the  case  of  naval  men  in  harbour,  enough  men 
must  always  remain  on  board  ship  to  man  her  in  the 
event  of  her  sailing  suddenly  becoming  necessary. 

(14)  Officers  may  not  punish  soldiers  without  con- 
sulting the  Soldiers'  Committee  and  the  Soldier  Judge. 
This  does  not  apply  to  the  Active  Army  where  officers 
entirely  on  their  own  responsibility  may  order  a  soldier 
to  be  shot  for  disobedience. 

(15)  All  punishment  pernicious  to  health,  insulting 
or    torturous    to    be    abolished.     "  Under    the    Rifle " 


SOLDIERS'  COMMITTEES  181 

punishment  also  abolished.  (This  consisted  of  a  two 
hours'  stand  with  rifle  shouldered  and  full  marching  kit 
strapped  on  the  soldier,  during  which  time  the  man  was 
not  allowed  to  shift  his  position  as  much  as  a  single 
inch,  else  the  punishment  would  be  increased.) 

(16)  A  Statute  of  Disciplinary  punishment  to  be 
issued.  No  other  punishment  save  what  is  written  in 
the  official  "  Book  of  Rules  "  may  be  given.  Officers 
themselves  will  be  brought  before  a  military  judge  if 
they  order  other  punishment  than  that  officially  pre- 
scribed in  the  Statute  book. 

(17)  Abolition  of  corporal  punishment  in  gaol  for 
soldiers. 

(18)  Soldiers  may  not  object  to  their  commanders 
or  other  men  of  rank  higher  than  their  own.  Soldiers 
may  not  give  orders. 

These  concessions  speak  for  themselves.  Some  of 
them  go  to  show  that  the  Russian  soldier  in  the  past 
was  not  treated  as  he  ought  to  have  been.  He  was 
regarded  very  much  as  a  slave.  I  once  wrote  that  I 
would  rather  be  a  prisoner  of  war  in  Russia  than  a 
simple  soldier  in  the  Russian  Army.  .  .  .  The  question 
of  his  monthly  wage  would  have  been  of  small  importance 
had  other  conditions  been  good.  One  has  few  expenses 
at  the  Front.  One  receives  one's  food  from  a  more  or 
less  generous  Government.  Luxuries  are  only  occasion- 
ally to  be  had  and  these  are  to  be  bought  only  when  one 
visits  a  town.  .  .  .  What  are  my  own  expenses  ?  .  .  .  . 
I  buy  tobacco,  soap  and  insect  powder.  .  .  .  The  Russian 
soldier  receives  a  generous  allowance  of  machorka  and 
soap.  Also  he  receives  matches  and  cigarette  paper 
free  of  charge.  Insect  powder  he  never  thinks  of : 
live  and  let  live — and  he  even  begins  to  think  this 
motto  in  connection  with  the  enemy.  .  .  . 

But  other  conditions  were  not  good.  His  clothes 
were  of  very  cheap  material  for  the  most  part — very 
often  they  were  very  ragged  and  worn.  Boots, 
too.  I  saw  Russian  soldiers  in  the  retreat  from  Warsaw 
whose  boot  soles  were  fastened  to  the  uppers  with 
string  and  wire.  I  saw  some  soldiers  who  had  no  boots 
at  all.  They  limped  along  bare-footed.  ...  A  soldier's 
wife  in  Russia  received  an  allowance  of  nine  roubles  a 


182     ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

month.  Children  up  to  the  age  of  ten  or  so  were  allowed 
four  and  a  half  roubles  monthly,  and  older  children  up 
to  the  age  of  sixteen  had  nine  roubles  a  month  allotted 
to  them.  These  sums  were  sufficient  for  peasants' 
living  allowances  before  the  war,  but  with  the  increased 
cost  of  living  in  war-time  the  total  allowance  for  a 
woman  and,  say,  four  children  under  ten  years  of  age, 
was  worth  rather  less  than  a  pound  a  month,  English 
money. 

The  Russian  soldiers'  food  was  simple  and  good  as  a 
rule — black  bread,  kasha,  cabbage-soup,  meat  and  tea. 
But  there  were  times  when  the  food  was  very  bad. 
During  the  retreat  the  Russian  soldier  very  often  had 
only  stale  black  bread — green  with  mould — to  eat.  .  .  . 
The  general  living  conditions  were  bad,  too.  In  the 
spring  of  1917  I  know  that  a  whole  regiment  was  down 
with  scurvy,  caused  by  the  unhealthy  living  quarters 
and  the  poorness  of  the  food  of  the  men.  .  .  .  Russian 
soldiers  travelled  to  the  Front  in  goods  wagons — very 
crowded  wagons  they  were,  too.  .  .  . 

And  it  is  because  the  Russian  soldier  was  such  a  badly- 
off  fellow  and  yet  never  once  complained,  but  fought 
magnificently  in  spite  of  all — spite  of  his  bad  equipment, 
spite  of  his  food  or  lack  of  food,  spite  of  the  terrible 
shortage  of  ammunition  in  the  first  year  of  war — because 
of  that  I  will  always  think  affectionately  of  him,  with 
not  a  little  pride  that  I  have  been  in  charge  of  Russian 
men. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


Two  summers  on  the  Russian  Front ;  two  winters  ; 
and  now  the  smiling- weeping  days  of  my  third  spring. 
"  Two  years  ago,"  I  can  say  now  ;  or  else  :  "A  year 
ago  to-day  "  ;  and  then  discuss  the  altered  battle  line. 
April,  for  instance,  stands  for  Poland — and  Smorgon, 
east  of  Vilna — and  where  I  am  to-day.  I  read  the 
pencilled  notes  of  scrappy  diaries  and  think  how  quickly 
time  has  flown — and  yet  how  very  far  away  are  those 
two  twelve-month  spans.  And  I  find  days  that  I 
must  mark  on  all  my  future  calendars.  Days  of  great 
joy  that  I  must  celebrate  ;  days  of  great  grief  when  I 
must  turn  my  thoughts  to  absent  friends  ;  days  of 
great  danger — that  I  must  not  forget.  .  .  . 

To-day  is  April  29.  The  Russian  date  is  thirteen 
days  behind,  but  I  still  count  in  English  time.  The 
Colonel  came  in  for  lunch.  Also  old  "  Batushka  " — 
"  Father  " — the  army  priest,  who  is  as  much  at  home 
with  us  as  if  he'd  never  known  the  quiet  monastery  from 
which  he  came.  Sergei  Vladimirovitch,  a  captain  of  a 
neighbouring  regiment,  too  ;  and  three  young  officers 
from  the  Divisional  Staffs.  And  we  dined,  and  smoked, 
and  talked  of  other  years. 

Nicolai  Mihailovitch,  who  smokes  an  English  pipe 
though  he  is  just  as  Russian  as  caviare,  puffed  hard  and 
asked  us  if  we  thought  the  enemy  could  hold  out  till 
another  spring.  "  If  they  can,"  said  he,  "  heaven 
knows  what  we  will  do  to  them."  And  then  he  talked 
about  the  past  two  years  and  of  the  great  events  we 
prophesied  when  once  the  spring  arrived. 

Great   Allied    attack,  spring,  1915,"  he  said,  flip- 


184    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

pantly.  "  Greater  Allied  attack,  spring,  1916.  Greatest 
Allied  attack  due  any  moment  now.  The  spring,"  he 
added,  "  will  go  down  to  history  as  the  time  when  we 
Allies  would  really  begin  to  fight," — and  then  he  talked 
of  last  year  and  of  the  year  before. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  what  happened  a  year  ago  to-day  ?" 
The  captain  answered.     I  do  not  think  he  had  listened 
much  to  what  Nicolai  Mihailovitch  had  said. 

"  A  year  ago  to-day,"  said  he,  "  my  brother,  Vladimir, 
was  killed  at  Lake  Narotch." 

II 

Official  reports,  I  have  already  written,  are  crudely 
blunt.  No  newspaper  has  space  enough  to  print  them 
otherwise.  Behind  the  death  of  every  simple  soldier 
there  is  a  romance.  This  man,  for  instance,  was  a 
peasant  from  the  North  ;  and  this  a  fisher  from  the 
Caspian  Sea.  This  man  came  from  far  east  Siberia  ; 
and  this,  a  Tartar,  from  a  Crimean  vineyard.  This 
man  has  left  a  widow  and  an  orphan  boy  in  a  village 
on  the  Volga's  banks  ;  and  this  an  aged  mother,  toiling 
in  the  Little  Russian  fields  to  keep  the  cottage  home  as 
he  had  done.  Oh  !  what  romances  one  could  write — 
if  one  but  knew.  ...  if  one  but  knew.  .  .  . 

"  The  situation  remains  unchanged "  means  very 
much  more  than  these  four  words  tell.  It  means,  some- 
times, attacks  and  counter-charges  ;  trenches  lost  and 
taken  once  again  ;  night  expeditions  across  the  deadly 
No  Man's  Land  with  searchlights,  evil-eyes,  sweeping 
the  ground  with  damning  glare,  rendering  futile  the 
former  safety  of  the  covering  dark.  It  means,  some- 
times, a  thousand  men  from  the  two  sides.  .  .  .  And 
pain  and  suffering  in  Red  Cross  camps  ;  and  pain  and 
sorrow  in  a  thousand  homes.  Five  hundred  lost  to  us  ; 
five  hundred  lost  to  them.  And  we  are  here  again,  and 
they  still  are  across  the  way.  The  situation — spite  of 
all — remains  the  same.  .  .  . 

"  Yesterday  we  brought  down  one  aeroplane "  tells 
nothing  of  the  bombs  that  came  down  from  the  sky.  It 
tells  nothing  of  the  flights  of  the  machine — of  the  wonder 
of  it  sailing  through  a  shoal  of  little  shrapnel  clouds.  It 
tells  nothing  of  the  death  it  meted  out ;   nothing  of  the 


*'  AMONGST  THOSE  KILLED  .  .  .  ."        185 

men  who  crashed  to  earth  or  of  their  folks  in  Germany  ; 
nothing  of  that  fine  chivalry  that  sent  a  Russian  man 
to  face  a  deadly  fire  that  he  might  drop  a  message  telling 
of  the  foes'  fate. 

"  One  civilian  was  killed "  .  .  .  .  One  says,  "  Oh ! 
that's  nothing  !  " — but  I  have  told  of  Sokaloff  and  of 
the  wife  who  waited  his  return. 

"  Vladimir  Vladimir ovitch — Properchik.''^  One  name  in 
a  tabulated  list.  And  that  was  all.  Folks  glanced  with 
almost  casual  interest  at  the  names,  then  turned  away 
to  other  paragraphs.  The  death  of  one  lieutenant 
more  or  less  has  no  great  military  significance,  one 
might  say. 

"  A  year  ago  to-day,  my  brother,  Vladimir,  was  killed 
at  Lake  Narotch,"  said  the  captain.  "  Gentlemen,  if 
you  will  hear  me,  I  will  tell  you  a  romance." 

The  facts  are  simply  these  : — 


III 

"  My  brother's  company — he  was  a  lieutenant  in  the 
-th  Regiment — was  cut  off  from  the  main  army  in 


July,  1915.  Furthermore,  it  was  surrounded  by  German 
troops  so  that  the  men,  hopelessly  outnumbered,  had  to 
defend  attacks  from  back  and  front.  Only  two  hundred 
Russian  soldiers  ;  devil  knows  how  many  German  men. 
My  brother's  company  faced  the  enemy  alternately — 
one  man  turned  towards  the  west,  the  next  towards  the 
east,  the  third  towards  the  west,  and  so  on.  An  unequal 
contest  ?  .  .  .  .  These  words  are  not  strong  enough. 
Vladimir  saw  most  of  his  men  fall.  He  himself  was 
working  a  mitrailleuse  when  suddenly  he  was  pulled  from 
it,  an  enemy  revolver  at  his  head.  He  had  been  so 
intent  on  his  work  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  foe  who 
had  advanced  quickly  from  behind.  Why  he  was  not 
shot  I  do  not  know.  He  was  made  prisoner  along  with 
what  few  men  still  remained. 

"  For  three  days  he  was  kept  in  a  pig-sty — a  filthy 
place  ! — with  two  other  Russian  officers  as  his  com- 
panions. On  the  fourth  day  they  were  taken  to  a 
large   house  where  the  German  Divisional   Staff  was 


186      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

living.  The  owner — this  was  in  Poland,  of  course — 
was  the  proprietor  of  much  of  the  land  around.  You, 
gentlemen,  have  lived  in  just  such  houses.  The  con- 
ditions were  certainly  better  here,  and  the  officers  were 
allowed  a  certain  amount  of  freedom.  They  could  go 
about  the  house  as  they  wished.  They  could  even  go 
into  the  garden,  but  beyond  that  it  was  impossible  for 
anyone  in  Russian  uniform  to  go. 

"  The  proprietor  and  his  wife  and  daughter,  who  still 
remained  in  their  house,  were  very  good  to  the  captive 
men.  The  daughter  was  a  Sister  of  Mercy  in  a  lazaret 
in  the  village.  She  had  nursed  the  wounded  Russian 
men  ;  now  she  was  working  with  the  German  wounded. 
She  was  young  and  pretty.  My  brother  spoke  much  to 
me  of  her.  .  .  .  One  day,  about  a  week  after  their 
capture,  she  told  him  that  he  would  probably  be  sent 
off  to  Germany  in  a  couple  of  days  or  so.  Vladimir  did 
a  very  bold  thing.  He  decided  to  trust  her.  He  told 
her  that  he  meant  to  try  to  escape.  If  she  would  help 
him,  he  had  a  big  chance  of  getting  away. 

"  '  But  it  is  impossible  !  '  she  said.  '  You  simply 
must  not  take  the  risk.      You  would  be  shot  at  once  !  ' 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  even  that  will  be  better  than 
being  kept  prisoner  for  devil  knows  how  many  months 
— or  years.  Captivity  will  drive  me  mad.  I  cannot 
even  think  of  it.  .  .  .  Will  you  help  me  ?  ' 

"  She  promised  to  do  so  if  she  could,  and  he  told  her 
the  plan  he  had  in  mind.     You  will  hear  of  it  presently. 

"  '  And  you  will  do  that  ?  '  she  asked. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Vladimir.     '  It  is  the  only  way.' 

"  '  And  you  will  be  an  enemy  soldier  ?  '  she  said. 

"My  brother's  answer — he  told  me  of  it — was  romantic. 
'  I  will  be  your  soldier.  Sister,'  said  he.  '  If  I  escape  I 
will  owe  my  freedom  to  you — and  freedom  means  life  to 
me.     And — no  one  will  know  if  I  shoot  straight  or  not ! ' 

"  Three  days  later — why  he  was  not  taken  away 
sooner  simply  shows  how  very  busy  the  Germans  were 
at  that  time — the  girl  told  him  in  the  evening  that  all 
was  ready  for  his  escape.  From  her  lazaret  she  had 
managed  to  fetch  home  each  night  in  instalments  a 
complete  German  uniform — the  tunic  of  a  wounded 
man,  the  trousers  of  another,  finally  the  boots  and  cap 
of  a  third.     She  sewed  a  Red  Cross  on  the  tunic  sleeve 


"AMONGST  THOSE  KILLED  .  .  .  ."         187 

and  made  the  clothes  look  exactly  like  those  of  a  German 
sanitar,  of  whom  she  saw  many  each  day. 

"  Vladimir  gave  her  a  letter  to  send  to  me  when  war 
is  over.  He  had  been  able  to  write  it  during  the  night, 
and  in  it  he  wrote  of  his  attempted  escape,  of  his  plans 
to  get  back  to  Russia,  and  all  particulars  whereby  his 
fate  might  be  known  to  us  should  his  venture  prove 
unsuccessful.  And  he  promised  Sestra  that  he  would 
come  to  her  again  '  after  the  war.'  He  kissed  her  hand 
and  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  as  he  bent  to  do  so. 
We  have  that  custom  in  Russia,  too.     It  is  very  pretty." 

I  nodded.  The  last  two  sentences  were  addressed 
specially  to  me. 

"  She  held  up  a  rug  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  he 
changed  his  clothes  behind  it.  She  promised  to  burn 
his  Russian  uniform.  Then  off  he  went — boldly  out 
of  the  house — a  German  sanitar  !  Only  once,  on  his 
way  towards  the  village,  was  he  stopped  by  a  sentry. 
He  replied  in  good  German  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
lazaret  after  taking  a  message  to  one  of  the  Staff 
officers.  Nothing  more  was  said,  so  on  he  boldly  marched. 
He  came  to  a  peasant's  cottage  on  the  way.  It  was 
dusk  and  no  one  was  in  sight,  so  he  went  quickly  into 
the  house.  An  old  peasant  was  living  there  all  alone. 
I  know  his  name  and  address  ;  he  will  be  rewarded  when 
the  war  is  done.  .  .  .  Vladimir  again  took  a  great  risk. 

"  '  I  am  a  Russian  officer,'  he  said.  '  I  have  just 
escaped  from  the  Germans.  I  have  managed  to  steal 
a  soldier's  clothes.  Give  me  up  and  you  will  send  me 
to  my  death.     Help  me  and  you  will  have  your  reward.' 

"  He  begged  the  old  man  to  assist  him  and  his  plans 
were  successful.  For  four  weeks  he  lay  in  a  garret  under 
the  roof.  The  old  man  took  him  food  and  drink  and 
attended  to  him  in  his  hiding-place.  He  also  supplied 
him  with  an  old  suit  of  clothes  and  with  a  cap  and  boots. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  no  one  could  have  recognised 
him.  He  had  quite  a  beard  and  moustache.  He  was 
entirely  changed.  The  Germans,  too,  had  advanced, 
so  that  the  former  Divisional  Staft  was  no  longer  in  the 
district.  He  did  not  see  Sestra  again.  I  think  he  would 
have  liked  to,  but  he  had  fears  for  her  as  well  as — well, 
more  than  for  himself.  One  night  he  set  off  to  another 
village.     He  went  to  the  German  Army  quarters  and 


188      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

said  he  was  an  Austrian  Pole  and  that  he  wished  to  go 
into  the  Austrian  Army  as  a  volunteer.  They  examined 
him  and  found  him  to  be  quite  sincere.  And  he  was, 
gentlemen !  No  man  ever  wanted  more  to  be  an 
Austrian  soldier  than  Vladimir  did  at  that  time.  He 
spoke  German  fluently,  and  Polish  well  enough.  They 
sent  him  south  to  where  the  Austrians  were.  He  was 
accepted  and  sent  well  back  from  the  fighting  line  to  be 
drilled  as  a  soldier. 

"  It  was  September  by  this  time  and  he  was  drilled 
and  trained  and  taught  to  shoot  for  many  weeks.  Then 
he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  off  to  the  firing  line.  His 
shooting  was  good  ;  so  was  his  general  soldiering,  so 
off  he  went.  He  told  me  that  one  of  the  hardest  things 
of  all  was  to  pretend  ignorance  of  a  science  he  knew  so 
much  about.  .  .  .  Another  week,  and  he  was  in  the 
trenches,  facing  the  Russian  men.  For  what  seemed  an 
age  to  him  he  stayed  in  the  Austrian  firing  line,  but  in 
this  time  he  learnt  that  several  Austrian  Poles  were 
keen  to  give  themselves  up.  A  little  party  formed 
together.  Then  one  early  morning,  before  it  was  light, 
they  left  the  Austrian  lines  and  made  the  perilous  cross- 
ing to  the  Russian  trench.  Both  Russians  and  Austrians 
shot  at  them,  but  Vladimir  gave  himself  up  without 
being  wounded. 

"  Before  the  Russian  staff  he  told  his  story.  No  one 
believed  him.  It  was  scarcely  credible.  But  field 
telegraphs  were  got  into  motion  and  an  answer  came  that 
an  officer  had  certainly  been  lost  and  that  the  news  he 
gave  of  himself  and  of  his  former  army  comrades  was 
correct.  He  was  sent  to  the  quarters  of  his  old  regiment 
where  he  was  recognised  and  welcomed  back  again. 
This  was  in  February  of  last  year.  He  had  a  month's 
rest — he  could  have  had  much  more  if  he  had  wished — 
then  went  off  to  the  Front  again. 

"  And,  gentlemen — a  year  ago  to-day — Vladimir  died 
at  Lake  Narotch." 


IV 

The  captain  drew  out  his  pocket-book  and  took  two 
photographs  from  it. 


"AMONGST  THOSE  KILLED  .  .  .  ."        189 

"  Here  is  my  brother  as  he  was  when  he  rejoined  the 
Russian  Army,"  he  said,  and  showed  us  an  unkempt, 
unshaven  soldier  wearing  Austrian  dress. 

"  And  here  is  he  a  month  before  his  death." 

The  photo  was  of  a  very  handsome  young  man.  I 
noticed  the  St.  George's  Cross  upon  his  breast. 

"  Good  looking — so  very  good  looking,"  said  Nicolai 
Mihailovitch,  muttering  to  himself.  Then,  "  Poor  little 
Sestra  !  "  said  he.  "  Dreaming — dreaming — dream- 
ing  " 

The  captain  nodded. 

"  A  wonderful  story,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  A  most 
wonderful  story.  It  is  almost  a  miracle  how  he  managed 
to  get  back  unhurt  to  his  old  regiment." 

Nicolai  Mihailovitch — Nicolai,  the  dear  sentimentalist 
— smiled  wisely. 

"  '  Ce  quefemme  veut,  Dieu  le  veut,'  "  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MY   COMMAND — II 

One  of  my  men  came  to  me  one  day  and  asked  for  a 
certificate  of  his  bachelorhood.  He  was  about  to  go 
away  on  a  fortnight's  holiday  and  he  wished  to  get 
married  while  in  his  home  village.  Hence  the  request 
for  the  official  sanction.  Of  course  I  had  no  sure 
knowledge  as  to  whether  the  man  was  married  or  not, 
but  I  took  a  chance  and  gave  him  the  certificate  he 
wanted.  He  took  an  oath  that  he  had  no  wife — and  he 
went  off  happily  with  my  paper  (to  him  a  sort  of  licence) 
in  his  boot.  .  .  .  The  Russian  soldier  carries  his  note- 
book and  his  private  papers  and  his  wooden  spoon  in 
the  leg  of  his  boot. 

A  week  later  another  man  came  nervously  to  my  room. 
A  very  nice-looking  young  soldier  of  twenty-five.  This 
man's  home  is  in  Irkutsh.  He  asked  my  permission  to 
get  married.  He  coupled  with  this  request  an  invitation 
to  me  to  attend  the  ceremony  as  "  Posazhonii  Otets  " — 
nuptial  godfather.  .  .  .  This  was  a  war-area  romance. 
He  told  me  all  about  the  lady.  She  was  a  refugee  who 
had  retreated  a  few  versts  in  front  of  the  army,  had 
stopped  when  the  army  stopped,  and  so  had  remained 
only  a  few  versts  from  the  firing  line.  Her  name  was 
"  Fenia "  (Euphemia).  To  him,  he  told  me  naively, 
she  was  very  beautiful.  "  Perhaps  you,  Mr.  Commander, 
may  not  think  so,"  he  added. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  answering  his  request,  "  it  is  difficult 
for  me  to  say  '  Yes  '  or  '  No.'  I  do  not  know  all  the 
rules  of  the  Russian  Army." 

"It  is  entirely  all  right,  Mr.  Commander,"  said  he. 
"  There  has  been  no  prekas  (order)  that  we  must  not  be 
married." 

190 


MY  COMMAND— II  191 

That  settled  it  as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  If  there 
was  no  order  to  the  contrary. 

"  It  all  depends  on  you,  Mr.  Commander,"  he  pleaded, 
interrupting  my  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  I.  "  I  will  sign  a  paper  for  you 
allowing  you  to  be  married." 

"  Very  much  obliged,  Mr.  Commander." 

I  did  not  tell  him — there  was  no  need — that  it  was 
chiefly  out  of  curiosity  that  I  granted  his  request  so 
speedily.  I  had  not  seen  a  wedding  in  Russia.  A 
marriage  ceremony  at  the  Front  would  be  very  interest- 
ing. Heaven  knows  we  needed  something  to  amuse  us  ! 
....  A  dreadful  thought  struck  me. 

"  Listen,"  said  I.  "  You  don't  want  your  wife  to 
live  here  with  you,  do  you  ?  "  I  asked.  "  That  is 
impossible." 

"  Not  so,  no,  Mr.  Commander,"  he  said.  "  I  will  be 
married.  I  have  asked  the  Committee,  Mr.  Commander, 
to  give  me  two  weeks'  holiday.  I  will  take  my  wife  to 
my  home  and  leave  her  there,  then  I  will  come  back  here 
again." 

To  be  married — to  go  by  crowded  uncomfortable 
train  to  the  centre  of  Siberia — to  come  back  again  to 
war — it  could  not  be  done  in  the  time.  I  told  him  so. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Commander  would  be  good  enough  to 
grant  an  extra  week's  holiday.  .  .  .  Even  then,  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  he  would  only  have  a  day  at  his  home. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  twenty-five  years,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  And  your  fiancee  ?  " 

"  Nineteen,  Mr.  Commander." 

"  All  right,"  said  I. 

"  May  I  go  now,  Mr.  Commander  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  may,"  said  I,  and  he  went  off. 

I  consulted  my  friend  and  adviser.  Nicolai  Mihailo- 
vitch,  on  the  matter. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  fairy  godfather  at  a  wedding," 
said  I.     "  What  will  I  have  to  do  ?  " 

"  You  will  have  to  be  very  careful,"  he  said,  "  or  you 
will  be  married  to  a  Russian  peasant  girl." 

I  laughed. 

"  You  need  not  laugh,"  he  said.  "  You  do  not  speak 
Russian   perfectly  " — I   speak  very  badly — "  and  you 


192      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

certainly  do  not  understand  the  special  words.  .  .  .  You 
will  have  to  be  very  careful." 

"  You  had  better  come  with  me  to  protect  me — to  hold 
a  sort  of  watching  brief  on  my  behalf  !  "  said  I.  "  Seri- 
ously, what  have  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  It  will  cost  you  at  least  fifty  roubles,"  said  the 
practical  Nicolai.  "  You  will  have  to  present  the  couple 
with  an  ikon.  You  will  give  them  this  in  church. 
Batushka  ("  Father  " — the  army  priest)  will  tell  you 
how  to  make  the  presentation.  Then  you  can  kiss  the 
bride — if  she  is  interesting." 

"  And  if  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! — you  can  shake  hands.  It  all  depends  on 
you." 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  lady  !  "  said  I.  "  What  else 
must  I  do  ?  " 

"  Well — first  of  all  you  must  take  the  woman  to 
church.  The  bridegroom  must  not  do  that.  And  you 
must  give  the  ikon  and  see  the  business  through.  Then 
you  can  kiss  the  lady  or  not — just  as  you  like — then 
you  can  go  back  to  camp  with  her  or  not — just  as  you 
like — and  you  can  sing  and  dance  and  join  in  the  festival 
— just  as  you  like." 

"  Shall  we  walk  to  church  ?  "  said  I. 

"  My  God  !  No  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  must  drive. 
She  will  sit  at  your  right  side.  Then  you  can  give  the 
carriage  to  the  couple  when  the  ceremony  is  over  and 
go  back  on  horseback — or  else  you  can  sit  three  on  a 
seat  with  them." 

I  sought  out  the  long-haired  army  priest. 

"  Batushka,"  said  I,  "  what  must  I  do  as  godfather 
at  a  wedding  ?     How  do  I  present  the  ikon  ?  " 

"  You  must  have  two  ikons,"  said  the  priest,  and  he 
told  me  all  that  I  would  have  to  do.  First,  of  course, 
I  would  have  to  take  the  bride  to  church  and  hand  her 
over  to  the  bridegroom  who  would  be  waiting  there. 
He  would  kiss  her  hand.  Then  I  would  have  to  go  up 
to  the  altar,  turn  round  and  face  the  couple  who  would 
kneel  before  me.  With  one  ikon  I  would  have  to  make 
the  sign  of  the  Cross  over  the  man  and  hold  it,  the 
ikon,  for  him  to  kiss.  Then  I  would  have  to  give  him 
it,  and  with  the  other  ikon  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
over  the  woman,  hold  the  ikon  for  her  to  kiss  and  then 


MY  COMMAND-II  193 

give  it  to  her.  Each  would  hold  an  ikon  to  his  or  her 
breast  during  the  ceremony.  I  would  have  to  stand 
behind  the  couple  like  a  sort  of  guardian  angel.  .  .  . 

*'  Then  when  the  ceremony  is  over,  they  will  turn 
round  and  thank  j^ou.  You  will  shake  hands  with  the 
couple — the  bridegroom  first — and  congratulate  them. 
Also  you  will  kiss  both  of  them — the  bridegroom  first — 
on  the  mouth." 

"  My  God  !  "  I  cried.  ...  I  have  already  said  that 
one  can  say  that  in  Russian.  It  is  quite  a  good  expression. 
.  ..."  I  surely  need  not  kiss  my  own  soldier  !  " 

"  You  must,"  said  the  priest,  gravely.  "  You  will 
be  a  godfather  to  the  couple." 

"  I  don't  mind  kissing  the  bride,  Batushka,  if  she  is 
nice.     But  must  I  really  kiss  the  man  as  well  ?  " 

"  Certainly  you  must,"  said  Batushka. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  resigned,  "  I  will  think  about  it. 
....  If  the  bride  is  really  '  interesting '  as  Nicolai 
Mihailovitch  says,  I  will  go  through  the  ordeal  with  the 
husband  first  and  have  the  sweets  after  !  " 

I  invited  the  couple  to  come  and  see  me  in  the  evening, 
three  days  before  the  ceremony  took  place.  Nicolai 
Mihailovitch  suggested  unkindly  that  I  wanted  to 
know  whether  I  should  back  out  from  my  "  fairy  god- 
father "job  before  it  was  too  late  !  .  .  .  .  They  came 
shyly.  The  girl  curtseyed  to  me.  I  shook  hands. 
Grigorie  brought  tea  and  hovered  over  us  like  the 
guardian  angel  of  us  all.  The  girl  was  very  pretty  in  a 
way.  A  very  quiet,  gentle,  sun-browned  face,  dark 
shining  eyes — very  soft  and  very  sweet.  Her  hands 
were  strong  and  roughened  with  much  hard  work. 
She  wore  the  head-scarf  of  the  Russian  peasant  women 
— a  pink  and  white  one.  Over  her  shoulders  was  a  red 
and  black  checked  shawl.  Also  she  had  a  Russian 
blouse  of  white  home-made  cloth,  with  hand-worked 
red  and  blue  embroidery  on  it.  Some  ladies  in  England 
would  have  given  much  money  for  this  peasant 
work. 

A  refugee,  she  told  me,  from  the  government  of 
Grodno.  Her  father  had  died  during  the  great  retreat 
of  1915. 

"  You  do  not  know,  Mr.  Commander.  ..."  she  said. 


194      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

I,  however,  had  seen,  and  I  was  able  to  understand 
much. 

The  couple  told  me  what  they  would  do  after  the 
war.  The  soldier  had  a  little  farm  in  Siberia.  The 
bride  would  go  there  and  work  in  the  fields  and  wait  for 
peace  to  come.  Then  the  pair  would  till  the  ground 
together — and  work  hard  all  the  rest  of  their  lives. 
The  happiness  in  their  faces  was  good  to  see.  ... 
Twenty-five  years  of  age — and  nineteen.  ...  I  found 
it  in  my  heart  to  envy  them. 

"  Have  you  a  wife,  Mr.  Commander  ?  "  the  girl  asked 
me.     She  had  a  very  nice  soft  voice,  too. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  Why  not,  Mr.  Commander  ?  "  she  asked  with  the 
simplicity  of  a  child. 

I  could  not  answer.  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
"  Why  not  ?  "  myself.  .  .  . 

At  one  o'clock  on  the  following  Sunday,  my  carriage 
came  for  me.  In  it  I  drove  to  the  cottage  where  the 
bride  and  several  other  refugee  families  lived.  It  was 
crowded  with  peasant  women  and  children.  I  had  no 
idea  there  were  so  many  in  the  district.  The  women 
wore  dresses  of  pink  or  blue  stuff.  The  bride  was  dressed 
in  white  with  pink  ribbons.  She  wore  a  home-made 
Russian  head-dress  of  thick  white  veil  stuff  with  a  long 
veil  of  the  same  material.  Little  leaves  were  seen  on 
the  head-dress  and  veil — leaves  somewhat  like  laurel 
ones,  only  much  smaller.  She  also  wore  white  lace 
mittens — they  accentuated  the  roughness  and  the 
redness  of  her  poor  work-hardened  hands.  Her  brown 
eyes  were  splendid. 

There  was  a  large  wooden  table  down  one  side  of 
the  room.  A  great  loaf  of  special  bread,  decorated 
with  wild  flowers  was  there,  also  kvass  in  bottles  and 
jugs  and  even  in  ration  kettles !  .  .  .  .  The  bride 
herself  sewed  an  imitation  white  flower  bouquet  on 
my  tunic.  She  also  broke  the  thread  with  her  teeth 
and  bit  off  the  end  close  to  the  flower,  incidentally 
nearly  gouging  my  eye  with  her  head-dress.  The 
bridesmaids  sewed  favours  on  the  tunics  of  three  of 
my  soldiers  who  were  going  to  officiate  in  the  ceremony. 
I  was  then  invited  to  sit  in  the  ikon  corner.     Above 


MY  COMMAND— II  195 

me  were  cheap  coloured  pictures  of  Jesus  and  the 
Saints,  a  picture  of  Christ  on  the  Cross  and  one  of  the 
Holy  Mother.  On  my  right  was  the  deputy  mother 
of  the  soldier.  Next  to  her  was  the  deputy  father  of 
the  girl — then  the  girl's  mother,  a  very  faded  peasant 
woman  of  forty.  On  my  left  were  the  three  brides- 
maids. 

Two  glasses  of  kvass  were  filled  and  given  to  me  and 
the  deputy  mother.  We  clinked  glasses  and  drank 
to  the  happiness  of  the  young  couple.  "  Di  Bog  !  .  .  .  . 
God  give  !...."  said  the  company.  The  others  at 
the  table  each  drank  a  toast  out  of  our  glasses.  After 
this  the  bridegroom  walked  between  us  and  the  table 
up  to  the  ikon  corner,  crossed  himself,  and  kissed  the 
hands  of  the  two  mothers.  The  bride  followed  him. 
She  crossed  herself,  kissed  her  mother's  hand  (the 
mother  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  over  her),  kissed 
the  hands  of  the  deputy  father  and  the  deputy  mother, 
was  kissed  by  the  latter,  kissed  my  hand — held  her 
face  up  to  me  and  was  kissed  by  me.  .  .  . 

A  fancy  cloth  was  spread  on  the  floor  at  the  other 
side  of  the  table.  The  couple  knelt  down  towards 
the  ikon  corner.  Each  of  us  took  the  ikon  (there  was 
only  one  needed  after  all)  which  I  had  bought,  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  with  it  over  the  couple's 
heads.  First,  the  girl's  mother,  then  the  deputy  mother, 
then  the  deputy  father — then  I.  The  bride  and  bride- 
groom kissed  the  ikon.  After  this  we  were  ready  to 
go  to  the  church. 

Our  carriage  was  decked  with  branches  and  flowers. 
We  had  borrowed  two  carriages  from  a  neighbouring 
regiment,  and  we  had  our  own  transport  wagons 
for  the  other  guests.  The  bridegroom  and  his  soldier 
friends  drove  off  first.  The  bride,  the  bridesmaids 
and  I  drove  in  the  second  carriage,  and  soldiers  and 
peasant  women  and  girls  followed  in  transport  wagons. 

We  raced  across  the  plain  to  a  village  some  versts 
away.  Luckily,  it  was  not  a  German  "  demonstration  " 
day.  .  .  .  Dust  rose  in  clouds,  but  we  were  all  very 
happy.  I  forgot  all  about  the  war.  I  think  we  all 
did. 

The  church  was  crowded  with  soldiers.  Another 
wedding  was  taking  place.     A   surprising  number  of 

o  2 


196      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

peasant  women  were  there,  too,  but  not  a  single  man 
in  civilian  dress.  When  the  first  ceremony  was  over 
we  went  to  the  back  of  the  church  to  the  priest's  room 
to  sign  our  names.  An  untidy  room  it  was.  Along 
the  wall  of  one  side  was  a  row  of  empty  wine  bottles. 
A  wide-mouthed  brass  vessel  was  full  of  brown  candle 
ends.  A  bottle  of  Communion  wine,  half  empty,  stood 
on  the  priest's  table.  Beside  it  was  the  Communion 
cup. 

"  What  name  is  this  ?  "  the  priest  asked  me,  after 
I  had  signed  my  name  most  legibly. 

I  told  him. 

"  Robert  Ivanovitch,"  he  said.  "  Robert  Ivanovitch 
—What  is  the  rest  ?  " 

I  told  him.     All  the  time  he  eyed  me  with  suspicion. 

"  It  is  not  a  Russian  name,"  said  he. 

*'  I  know,"  said  I,  refusing  to  help  him, 

"  It  is  French,  perhaps  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

He  coughed,  then  said  my  name  aloud  and  drummed 
with  his  pen  on  the  table. 

"  Englishman,  Batushka,"  whispered  the  bride.  "  Eng- 
lishman." 

"  Ah  !  .  .  .  .  Anglaychanyin  ?  "  he  beamed  on  me. 
"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  he. 

Fenia  and  I  entered  church  together.  The  ikon 
ceremony  was  not  necessary — that  in  the  cottage  was 
enough.  A  tired-looking  peasant  woman  who  was 
acting  as  some  important  official  placed  the  ikon  on 
the  priest's  table.  The  bridegroom  stood  in  front  of 
it.  I  handed  him  the  bride.  I  stood  at  attention 
behind  them  ....  I  do  not  know  the  w^ords  the 
priest  chanted.  I  do  not  know  the  words  that  the 
choir  of  three  soldiers  and  two  boys  sang.  ...  At 
one  point  in  the  ceremony,  the  priest  tied  the  right 
hand  of  the  girl  and  the  left  hand  of  the  man  together 
with  a  napkin.  Two  of  my  men  (also  officials)  each 
received  a  gilt  ornamental  crown,  which  they  grasped 
gingerly  with  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands  as  though 
they  were  burning  hot.  One  soldier  held  a  crown  above 
the  bridegroom's  head  :  the  other  a  crown  above  the 
bride's  head.     The  priest  walked  round  his  little  table 


MY  COMMAND— II  19T 

three  times,  followed  by  the  bridal  couple  and  the 
two  soldiers  still  holding  the  crowns  an  inch  above  the 
couple's  heads.  Then  came  the  Sacrament — then  the 
priest  took  each  crown  in  turn  and  held  it  to  the  bride- 
groom and  the  bride  to  kiss.  The  priest  gave  each  a 
silver  ring.  The  choir  sang  loudly.  The  priest  opened 
the  glass  of  the  ikon  and  the  man  and  the  woman  kissed 
the  sacred  picture.  Then  he  held  his  cross  to  them, 
and  they  kissed  it.  The  ceremony  was  at  an  end. 
The  newly-married  couple  wxnt  to  the  altar  rail  to 
pray.  The  priest  went  off  hurriedly  to  his  own  room, 
disrobing  as  he  went.  .  .  .  The  couple  finished  praying. 
.  .  .  They  crossed  themselves.  .  .  . 

"  Pozdravli-u   vas   zakonim  brakom  !  "   I   said.     *'  I 

congratulate  you  on  your  wedding "  and  I  had  to 

kiss  the  happy  couple.  .  .  . 

The  matter  of  kissing  the  soldier  was  a  mere  pretence 
— a  sort  of  stage  kiss  !  .  .  .  .  But  everybody  kissed 
the  bride  three  times.  And  we  filed  out  of  the  church. 
...  A  drive  across  the  plain.  The  bride  and  bride- 
groom in  front :  the  bridesmaids  and  I  followed — and 
then  the  guests.  A  drive  past  camps  and  dug-outs — 
with  little  groups  of  soldiers  to  stand  and  look  at  us 
in  wonder.  A  joyous  wedding  party  within  the  zone 
of  fire  ! 

Into  the  crowded  cottage  room  again.  A  group  of 
soldiers  played  melodeons  and  balalaikas  outside. 
Others  danced.  We  all  drank  the  couple's  health  in 
kvass,  also  we  ate  cold  meat  and  white  bread  and  salt 
fish.  More  dancing,  in  which  I  was  invited  to  join, 
and  then  a  most  important  ceremony. 

A  hand-embroidered  towel  was  fastened  across  my 
shoulder  and  breast  and  under  my  left  arm  like  a  sash. 
A  coloured  print  handkerchief  was  pinned  to  my  left 
side  and  I  took  my  place  on  the  right  of  the  bride  who 
sat  in  the  ikon  corner.  The  tired-looking  peasant 
woman  who  had  carried  the  ikon  to  the  church  com- 
menced to  carry  out  a  curious  ceremony.  First  of 
all  she  removed  the  bride's  headdress,  passed  it  three 
times  in  a  circle  above  the  bride's  head,  then  placed 
it  beneath  the  ikon.  Then  she  took  out  the  combs 
in  the  bride's  hair  and  the  bride  herself  undid  the 
plaits.     The  tired-looking   woman  then   made  a   new 


198      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

coiffure,  and  placed  a  bunch  of  artificial  flowers  on  the 
bride's  head.  Three  times  she  did  this,  and  three 
times  the  bride  took  the  flowers  from  her  head  and 
threw  them  on  the  table.  The  fourth  time  the  tired- 
looking  woman  fixed  the  flowers  securely  with  some 
hair-pins.  The  bride's  mother  commenced  to  weep. 
.  .  .  The  throwing  down  of  the  flowers  was  a  pretended 
sign  of  the  bride's  desire  to  remain  a  maiden.  The 
guests  assembled  at  the  table. 

A  soldier,  one  of  my  men  who  was  apparently  Master 
of  Ceremonies,  took  his  place  beside  the  large  loaf  of 
white  bread  decorated  with  wild  flowers.  There  was 
a  special  small  loaf  beside  this.  He  put  this  and  a 
glass  of  kvass  on  a  plate  and  another  soldier  handed 
it  to  me. 

"  Ot  molodovo  e  molodoi  dla  Gospodina  Natchalnika  " 
("  From  the  newly-married  man  and  the  newly-married 
woman  for  Mr.  Commander,")  he  said. 

I  stood  up,  received  the  loaf  and  drank  the  kvass. 
I  made  a  little  speech  wishing  the  couple  happiness, 
etc.,  etc.  "  Do  Bog  !  .  .  .  .  God  give !  "  everyone 
cried.  .  .  .  Also  I  placed  a  bank  note  on  the  plate. 

"  Ot  Gospodina  Natchalnika  dla  molodovo  e  molodoi !" 
he  called,  and  handed  it  to  the  young  couple  who  were 
now  both  seated  on  my  left.  They  rose  and  bowed 
and  thanked  me.  Also  the  bride  insisted  on  kissing 
me  again.  Nicolai  Mihailovitch  would  have  called 
her  "  interesting." 

This  performance  was  repeated  for  every  guest  present. 
The  sums  of  money  varied.  Some  of  the  peasant 
women  gave  pieces  of  cloth.  Some  others  gave  only 
a  few  kopecks — their  all,  indeed. 

A  man  played  a  melodeon.  Some  soldiers  sang 
the  song  of  "  Stenka  Reizin  " — also  "  Solovei  "  ("the 
nightingale"). 

"The  nightingale  is  a  little  bird 
The  nightingale  sings  a  little  song.  .  .  ." 

Into  the  welcome  open  air.  A  company  of  soldiers 
from  other  regiments  sat  on  tree  trunks  around  the 
cottage  door.  Dancing  and  music  and  welcome  intervals 
of  silence.  .  .  .  The  twilight  and  stars  coming  in  the 


MY  COMMAND— II  199 

sky.  A  greyness  on  the  plain.  ...  A  soldier  playing 
a  folk-song  on  a  violin — he  made  the  violin  sing.  The 
stirring  notes  were  very  sweet.  .  .  .  Night  and  the 
men  went  off  on  duty.  I  walked  across  the  plain  to 
my  own  quarters. 

One  day  a  very  excited  peasant  came  to  me  with  a 
complaint.  He  had  been  to  see  a  peasant  girl  in  the 
district  when  suddenly  one  of  my  men  who  was  in 
love  with  the  girl  arrived  and  promptly  beat  him. 

"  All  right,"  I  told  him,  when  he  had  finished  his 
sad  tale,  and  he  went  off  sulkily  and  angrily. 

I  saw  him  telling  the  whole  story  over  again  to  the 
sentry  at  the  edge  of  the  wood.  I  saw  his  gestures, 
indicating  how  and  where  the  blows  had  fallen. 

Nicolai  Mihailovitch  was  with  me  at  the  time. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  said  he  with 
a  smile,  after  the  enraged  peasant  had  gone  off. 

"  Do  about  what  ?  "  said  I. 

Nicolai  Mihailovitch  eyed  me  reprovingly.  "  About 
what  that  peasant  has  just  told  you  ?  " 

"  Nicolai,"  said  I,  "I  have  a  wretched  memory. 
...  I  have  entirely  forgotten  what  he  came  to  see  me 
about." 

"  All  right !  "  said  Nicolai  and  laughed.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XXV 

an  open  letter  to  the  censor 

My  Dear  Censor, 

I  wonder  if  you  are  the  pretty  girl  with  the  blue 

eyes  and  the  smiling  dimples  whom  I  once  saw  when 

I   visited  your  office  in   Petrograd  ?  .  .  .  .  You   were 

sitting  on  a  mail  bag  smoking  a  cigarette.     A  soldier 

asked  me  what  I  wanted.     I  said  I  wanted  to  see  the 

Censor  of  the  English  letters.     You  looked  up  at  me 

and  your  blue  eyes  shone,  and  you  blew  out  a  narrow 

cloud    of   smoke   from    your    pretty   mouth.     Do    you 

remember  ?  .  .  .  .  And   the    soldier    went    away — and 

ever  so  many  old  officers  passed  us  in  the  outer  room 

— and  then  the  man  came  and  told  me  that  the  chief 

of  the  department  was  engaged.     So  I  had  to  go  away 

without  seeing  him.     But,  really,  it  was  not  he  whom 

I  wished  to  see.     The  person  I  wanted  was  the  one 

who  cut  bits   out  of  the  letters   I   wrote  home,   and 

crossed  out  bits  in  the  letters  I  received  from  England  : 

who    collected    photographs    that    were    addressed    to 

me,    and,    generally,    did   the   most    annoying   things. 

I  wonder  if  it  was  you  ? — or  someone  like  you  ?  .  .  .  . 

I  hardly  like  to  think  so,  because  I  have  called  the 

Censor  very  dreadful  names,   such  as   I  would  never 

use  to  any  lady,  blue  eyes  and  dimples  or  not.     We 

say  the  "  enemy  "  here  :  and  the  enemy  is  an  unknown 

quantity.     Not   as    regards    numbers,    but   as    regards 

personality.     We  say  the  "  Censor  "  ;  and  the  "  Censor  " 

is  a  limited  company,  too.     And  just  as  each  enemy 

soldier  is  hated  because  he  is  of  the  opposing  side,  so 

each  one  of  you  who  read  our  letters  and  our  private 

200 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  THE  CENSOR   201 

notes  must  be  blamed  because  you,  collectively,  make 
up  the  disliked  Power  that  we  call  "  Censor  " — and 
that  we,  as  I  have  said,  call  other  names  besides. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  write  to  you.  Miss  Censor,  because 
for  the  first  time  in  nearly  three  years  I  know  that 
all  I  write  will  be  read  by  the  one  to  whom  it  is  written. 
That  other  people  will  be  allowed  to  read  this  letter 
depends,  of  course,  on  you.  But  I  think  you  might 
let  them  read  it — just  for  a  change.  You  have  read 
so  many  other  people's  letters  that  it  would  be  a  little 
reciprocation  on  your  part  if  you  allowed,  for  once, 
the  other  people  to  read  a  very  personal  letter  of  your 
own.  I  will  certainly  say  some  things  that  you  may 
not  like,  but  I  have  also  written  about  your  prettiness, 
so  that  ought  to  even  things  up  a  little.  One  can 
forgive  a  girl  anything  if  she  has  blue  eyes  and  dimples  : 
and  you  will  forgive  me  in  that  I  make  this  known. 

I  have  made  an  estimate  of  the  number  of  letters 
written  to  me  by  relatives  and  friends  in  1915.  I 
have  made  a  very  modest  estimate,  allowing  for  for- 
getfulness  and  laziness  and  procrastination,  but  one 
based  on  what  letters  I  actually  received,  most  of  which 
referred  to  previous  notes  sent  to  me.  And  I  find 
this — that  in  the  nine  months  from  April  to  December 
inclusive,  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  letters  were 
sent  to  me  from  England.  Do  you  know  how  many 
I  actually  received.  Miss  Censor  ?  .  .  .  .  Guess  .... 
You  cannot  ?  .  .  .  .  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you.  Twenty- 
nine.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that  ?  .  .  .  .  And 
do  you  know  how  I  received  them  ?  Like  this  :  Three 
months  without  a  single  one,  then  suddenly  a  batch 
of  seven  or  eight.  Then  two  months  without  any — 
and  then  another  half-dozen.  German  submarines 
perhaps  accounted  for  the  loss  of  over  a  hundred  of 
my  hundred  and  fifty  letters  in  nine  months :  also 
perhaps  not.  Miss  Censor.  But  German  submarines 
are  not  to  blame  for  eight  letters  of  dates  spreading 
over  three  months  arriving  at  the  same  time.  You 
say  that  probably  I  was  shifting  about  all  the  time 
with  the  army  and  that  of  course  the  letters  could  not 
possibly  reach  me  quickly  when  my  army  address 
was  changing  every  day  ?  But  I  am  allowing  for  all 
that.     I  am  telling  of  the  receipt  of  letters  at  my  Petro- 


202      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

grad  address — and  not  at  the  Front,  where,  of  course, 
delays  are  quite  excusable. 

The  following  year,  1916,  was  somewhat  better,  I 
received  probably  thirty  per  cent,  of  the  correspondence 
addressed  to  me.  That  is  a  decided  improvement  on 
a  percentage  of  19*3.  But  most  of  my  letters  were 
over  two  months  old  by  the  time  they  reached  my 
address  in  town  :  and  at  least  ten  weeks  old  by  the 
time  they  reached  me  at  the  Front.  One  letter — a 
registered  one — posted  to  me  from  London  on  the 
13th  of  November,  1915,  arrived  in  Petrograd  on 
April  13,  1916.  This  letter  was  intended  to  reach 
me  at  Christmas  :  it  arrived  on  my  birthday  instead, 
which  was  very  nice,  wasn't  it  ?  Lots  of  other  quicker 
arrivals  have  come  to  me  after  being  four  months  en 
route.  However,  better  late  than  never — that  is  an 
English  proverb — so  I  do  not  grumble  very  much  at 
these  delays. 

But  oh !  Miss  Censor,  the  things  you  do  !  .  .  .  . 
This  same  letter  that  left  London  on  November  13 
referred  to  the  lack  of  news  from  me.  By  the  way, 
I  had  written  home  on  an  average  of  six  times  each 
month.  .  .  .  This  passage  occurred  in  the  letter : 
"  We  heard  fairly  regularly  from  you  when  you  were 
in  Poland,  but  since  you  wrote  at  the  beginning  of 
August,  just  before  the  fall  of  Warsaw,  we  have  only 
received  three  letters."  Nothing  much  of  military 
importance  in  that  letter :  no  secrets.  Miss  Censor. 
Yet  your  copying  ink  pencil  had  crossed  out  the  word 
"  Warsaw "  !  Did  you  want  me,  who  had  escaped 
from  the  town  at  the  last  minute,  to  remain  in  ignorance 
of  its  fall  ?  Or  did  you  want  to  prevent  the  information 
from  reaching  the  Germans  ?  Or — but  I  cannot  think 
of  any  other  reasons  for  the  word's  obliteration.  In 
1916,  also,  I  received  two  letters  from  my  mother. 
Very  nice  letters.  Miss  Censor,  with  only  personal  news, 
hopes  for  my  safety,  love,  and  so  on.  But  do  you 
remember  what  you  did  ?  You  crossed  out  all  marks 
of  punctuation  !  You  crossed  out  "  secret  codes  "  like 
"  ?  "  and  "  !  "  and  "  "  "  and  "  ,  "  and  "  :  "  and  "  (  " 
and  "  — ".  The  things  I  said  !  .  .  .  .  well,  I  have 
censored  them  myself,  and  so  I  cannot  write  them 
down.     But  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  one  censored 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  THE  CENSOR      203 

remark  ?    I  will  write  it,  just  to  show  the  futility  of 

censoring  single  words.     "  Well  I'll  be  ,"  I  said. 

"  Of  all  the foolishness,  this  is  the limit !  " 

I  received  one  letter  in  1915  in  which  was  this  sen- 
tence :  "I  am  sending  you  in  this  letter  a  snapshot 
of  myself  taken  in  the  garden  last  week."  But  there 
was  no  photograph  in  the  letter  I  received.  In  1916, 
another  sentence  said,  "  I  enclose  a  photograph  of  Ito 
and  Bob  playing  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house." 
Ito  and  Bob  are  my  dogs,  as  you  must  have  known 
if  you  looked  at  the  print.  But  you  did  not  allow  me 
to  have  it.  Indeed,  considering  only  the  few  letters 
I  actually  received,  you  have  confiscated  the  following 
property  intended  for  me  :  Four  photographs  of  my 
mother,  two  photographs  of  my  dogs,  one  family  group, 
and  five  others,  none  of  which  were  mounted  and 
none  of  which  could  possibly  have  concealed  secret 
messages.  Why  you  annexed  my  dogs — you  and  you 
alone  can  tell.  The  big  one,  as  you  know,  is  a  sort 
of  English  sheep-dog — he  is  a  cross  between  a  sheep-dog 
and  an  Airedale — and  the  little  one  is  a  Japanese  spaniel. 
One  English,  the  other  Japanese.  Both  Allies.  But 
perhaps  you  fell  in  love  with  them  ?  ....  I  cannot 
blame  you  if  you  did. 

You  made  an  awful  mess  of  some  of  the  magazines 
and  newspapers  I  received.  The  greasy  ink  you  used 
soaked  through  other  pages  of  the  paper  and  made 
other  passages  apart  from  the  ones  inked  out  difficult 
to  read.  And  that  sand  that  you  sprinkled  on  the 
wet  oily  ink  to  dry  it  annoyed  me  intensely.  We 
called  it  "  caviare  "  here.  I  used  to  read  in  bed,  and 
the  sand  used  to  fall  on  my  pyjamas  and  find  its  way 
through  to  my  skin.  A  most  unpleasant  matter.  Of 
course,  you  systematically  blacked  out  all  the  German 
official  reports.  But  in  England  we  always  publish 
them.  And  English  folk  here,  for  whom  the  papers 
came,  like  the  English  folk  at  home,  know  very  well 
that  the  German  reports  are  usually  fairy  tales.  In 
England  we  read  them  with  amusement.  No  one  is 
the  least  depressed  at  the  German  tales  of  victory. 
The  Jutland  Battle,  for  instance,  seen  through  German 
eyes,  appeared  to  be  the  overwhelming  defeat  of  the 
English   Fleet.     But   our   fleet   remained   at   sea,   and 


204      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

our  ports  remained  open,  and  our  merchant  ships  went 
on  their  business,  while  the  German  warships  returned 
once  more  to  their  prison  in  the  Kiel  Canal.  To  digress 
for  a  moment,  let  me  tell  you  of  a  very  excellent  com- 
ment I  read  in  an  American  paper  which  reached  me 
after  many  months.  "  The  German  Navy,"  the  com- 
ment ran,  "  is  a  navy  in  prison.  It  has  attacked  its 
jailer  with  great  fury — but  it  still  remains  in  prison." 
That,  of  course,  is  by  the  way.  Perhaps  I  have  not 
quoted  the  exact  words,  as  I  am  writing  from  memory, 
but  that  is  the  gist  of  the  comment. 

In  the  beginning  of  1917  you  inked  out  the  photo 
of  Rasputin,  but  not  the  text  underneath.  Why  ?  .  .  .  . 
Everybody  in  Russia  knew  that  such  a  blackguard 
existed.  It  was  no  secret.  The  Germans,  too,  knew 
more  about  him  and  his  doings  than  we  shall  ever 
know.  Oh  !  Miss  Censor  ! — I  cannot  follow  all  your 
reasoning,  for  do  you  know  what  you  did  ?  You  blacked 
out  Rasputin  in  one  English  journal  and  let  him  appear 
uninked  in  another,  and  months  before  you  allowed 
a  severe  criticism  of  him  to  appear  in  the  "  Times' 
History  of  the  War."  What  a  contrary  little  lady 
you  are  ! 

I  will  tell  you  some  other  things  you  did.     A  letter 

reached   me   with   one   sentence   like   this :    "A   

visited  us  the  other  night.  Very  little  damage  was 
done.  Folks  here  are  remarkably  calm,  although,  as 
is  to  be  expected,  there  are  always  a  few  nervous  people." 
In  some  of  the  English  journals  there  used  to  be  "  Missing 
Word  "  competitions.  Sentences  such  as  that  I  have 
written  were  given,  and  one  had  to  supply  the  words 
that  were  left  out.  But  no  sentences  with  missing 
words  were  ever  so  easy  as  the  one  above  ! — except, 
perhaps,  those  of  the  first  two  weeks  of  the  competition, 
when  the  easiest  possible  phrases  were  printed  as  a 
sort  of  bait.  The  Germans  knew  that  the  Zeppelin 
had  sailed  to  England :  and  we  in  Russia  knew  it  too, 
for  the  English  papers  that  we  received  told  of  its 
visit,  and  the  Russian  papers,  too,  had  announced  the 
news  some  weeks  earlier.  I  think  I  know  why  you 
crossed  out  "  Warsaw "  and  "  Zeppelin."  I  think, 
perhaps,  there  must  have  been  an  order  prohibiting 
the  mention  of  places  and  dates  and  military  particulars, 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  THE  CENSOR      205 

so  that  when  you  saw  a  town  mentioned  you  crossed 
it  out  at  once,  and  when  you  saw  "  Zeppelin  "  you 
crossed  it  out,  too.  But  I  do  not  think  you  troubled 
to  read  the  rest  of  the  letter.  You  looked  for  proper 
names,  and  cut  them  out,  and  so  the  innocent  suffered 
with  the  guilty.  And  sometimes  you  cut  out  words 
which  appeared  in  sentences  which  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  war.  Perhaps  the  writing  was  bad  and  you 
could  not  decipher  them  :  perhaps  you  did  not  understand 
their  meaning ;  and  so,  perhaps,  you  decided  to  err 
safely.  However,  I  cannot  grumble  very  much  at 
these  doings  of  yours.  They  amused  me.  And,  any- 
how, half  a  letter  is  better  than  no  news. 

What  you  did  to  the  letters  I  wrote  home  I  cannot 
say,  I  do  know  that  only  about  forty  per  cent,  of  those  I 
ever  wrote  reached  England.  In  what  condition  I  do  not 
know.  I  can  say  this  much  to-day — that  I  never  once 
wrote  a  letter  without  having  you  in  my  mind.  And 
if  you  ever  found  my  notes  dull,  you  have  only  your 
own  self  to  blame.  I  could  have  made  my  correspon- 
dence very  much  more  interesting  than  it  was.  I 
could  have  told  you  lots  of  interesting  incidents  and 
little  thrilling  stories  to  entertain  you  in  that  dull,  inky, 
sandy,  gummy  room  in  Petrograd.  But  I  was  afraid 
of  you.  So  what  did  I  write  instead  ?  You  must  know  : 
but  perhaps  you  have  forgotten  ?  .  .  .  .  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  letters  of  considerable  length,  I 
wrote  the  very  scrappiest  notes.  I  WTote  that  I  was 
well — or  that  I  was  ill :  that  the  weather  was  fine, 
or  that  it  was  bad  :  that  I  had  had  dinner  at  the  Staff, 
or  that  some  Staff  Officers  had  had  dinner  with  me  : 
and  I  nearly  always  wrote  that  I  had  no  more  news 
to  tell,  that  I  wearied  to  be  home  again,  and  that  I 
sent  much  love  to  all.  And  I  used  to  write  at  the  top 
of  the  letter,  "  No  War  News,"  and  also  "  Rien  sur 
la  guerre,"  in  case  the  lady  who  censored  my  letters 
did  not  understand  English. 

Do  you  know.  Miss  Censor,  that  I  have  envied  you 
many  times,  apart  from  the  fact  that  you  received 
all  my  correspondence  from  home  and  I  did  not.  I 
envied  you  the  opportunities  you  had  of  studying 
human  nature,  of  reading  real  life  dramas — comedies 
and  tragedies.     I  envied  you  the  secrets  that  you  must 


206      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

have  read.  And  I  envied  you  your  power.  You 
raised  your  pencil  and  words  died.  You  said  the  word 
and  letters  were  destroyed.  Men  might  write  and 
editors  might  accept  and  publishers  might  print,  but 
at  a  word  from  you  the  greasy  ink  and  drying  sand 
would  be  applied  that  readers  might  not  read.  Your 
pencil  was  more  powerful  than  our  pens. 

Do  you  know  what  I  think  this  war  has  shown  us 
very  clearly  ?  .  .  .  .  The  Victory  of  the  Lie.  The 
lie  has  triumphed  :  the  truth  has  been  suppressed.  That 
well  where  Truth  is  supposed  to  be  has  been  filled  up 
with  official  reports  and  notices  and  public  rumours 
— with  a  Censor  sitting  grimly  on  the  top  and  a  screaming 
band  of  little  lies  playing  jing-a-ring  around  him. 
Truth,  according  to  the  Censor's  definition,  is  something 
one  must  not  write.  One  can  write  a  part  of  it,  but 
not  all.  Last  year,  1916,  for  instance,  one  could  write 
that  Soukhomlinov  had  been  War  Minister  ;  but  one 
was  not  allowed  to  write  that  there  had  been  no  shells. 
Both  statements  were  absolutely  true — the  latter  be- 
cause of  the  former.  Soukhomlinov  was  :  shells  were 
not.  Cause  and  effect.  .  .  .  One  was  permitted  to 
say  that  Warsaw  had  fallen  and  that  the  Russian 
army  had  made  a  great  retreat :  but  one  was  not 
allowed  to  say  that  many  Russian  soldiers  had  died 
and  that  many  Russian  soldiers  had  been  wounded. 
And  so  you  prohibited  a  book  of  mine  from  coming 
into  Russia — and  you  would  not  even  let  me,  who 
had  written  it,  have  a  copy  ! 

Well,  well.  .  .  .  We  have  a  free  Russia  now,  and  I 
hear  talk  of  a  free  Press  and  of  free  speech  and  of  free 
opinion,  and  so  forth.  But  I  wonder,  Miss  Censor. 
...  A  year  ago  you  let  us  see  and  show  the  Tsar's 
head  on  the  rouble,  but  not  the  other  side.  To-day 
we  see  the  eagle  side,  but  we  do  not  see  the  other.  .  .  . 
That  is  a  figure  of  speech  !  Of  course  we  do  not  see  any 
metal  money  at  all !  Only  these  dirty  stamps  and 
rouble  notes.  Really,  I  am  surprised  that  the  paper 
money — the  10,  15  and  20  kopeck  stamps — has  not 
been  censored  too  !  ....  Of  course  you  know  that 
soldiers  have  reversed  their  medals  so  that  the  late 
emperor's  head  is  hidden  ?  .  .  .  .  Freedom  of  the 
Press  ?  .  .  .  .  Yet  you  even  refused  to  let  me  have 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  THE  CENSOR   207 

some  English  papers  addressed  to  me  that  referred 
to  the  Revolution  !  .  .  .  .  Why  ?  But  it  is  no  use  asking 
you.     You  will  not  answer  me. 

I  wonder,  Miss  Censor,  if  you  are  the  pretty  girl 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  the  smiling  dimples  whom  I 
once  saw  when  I  visited  your  office  in  Petrograd  ?  .  .  .  . 
If  so — well,  what  a  pretty  enemy  I  have  had  !  If  you 
are  one  of  those  old  officers  I  saw — Damn  you  !  .  .  .  . 
But  no  !  Pardon  me.  I  am  sure  you  are  a  lady.  For 
no  mere  man  could  ever  be  quite  so  contrary  as  you 
have  been.  No  mere  man  could  ever  be  so  cruel. 
And — but  there  are  some  things  I  cannot  write,  even 
to  the  Censor.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

SMOKE   PICTURES 

Spring  came — the  third  spring  of  the  war.  The 
Cheremucha  bushes  were  in  bloom.  The  flowers  were 
Hke  white  lilac.  In  the  woods  were  other  white  flowers 
that  opened  out  by  day  and  shut  their  eyes  at  night. 
Violets,  too,  in  hollows  or  nestling  at  the  foot  of  trees. 
The  marshes  were  yellow  with  buttercups.  And  all 
the  woods  and  boggy  ground  stirred  with  insect  life. 
Birds,  also,  accustomed  to  the  war,  sang  merrily  in 
the  trees.  The  cuckoo — the  Russian  word  is  "  Koo- 
kooshka  " — cuckooed.  At  evening  on  the  broad  flat 
pools  that  lay  upon  the  plains  one  saw  wild  ducks 
swimming  slowly  on  the  calm  water.  Frogs  croaked 
in  steady  monotone  from  the  water's  edge.  Hearing 
them  night  after  night  I  formed  a  theory  of  how  they 
make  the  noise.  They  fill  their  big  wide  mouths  with 
water,  I  think,  then  gaze  up  to  the  sky  and  gargle.  .  .  . 
Geese  honked  overhead  after  the  sun  had  set — arrow- 
shaped  flights  of  geese  that  flew  high  in  the  sky.  Night- 
ingales sang.  I  like  that  word  "  nightingale."  The 
Russian  word,  too,  is  very  pretty — "  Solovei  "  .  .  .  . 
The  days  and  nights  but  for  the  birds  and  frogs  were 
very  calm. 

In  early  summer  we  moved  to  tents,  leaving  the 
safety  of  our  bomb-proof  huts.  I  write  in  my  cool 
tent  now.  The  floor  is  uncovered.  The  grass  is 
already  trampled  down  except  in  the  corners  and  by 
the  edges  of  the  tent's  sides.  I  have  a  trestle  bed. 
It  is  narrow  and  low,  only  a  foot  and  a  half  in  height. 
I  have  a  folding  table  made  of  yellow  varnished  pine. 
I  have  a  small  camp  stool  to  match.  It  is  much  steadier 
than    most    stools    are :    and    much    more    convenient 

than  a  chair.     A  larger  table  has  a  map  fastened  to 

ao8 


SMOKE  PICTURES  209 

it  with  drawing  pins.  I  know  the  zig-zag  red-ink  line 
by  heart.  There  is  a  hieroglyphic  sign  that  marks 
the  place  where  I  am  now.  .  .  .  There  is  a  mirror, 
remnant  of  a  former  dressing-case,  hanging  to  the 
end  tent  pole.  Beneath  it  is  an  empty  sugar  box. 
On  this  a  tin  enamelled  basin  stands.  My  kit  bags 
stand  on  slabs  of  pine  to  keep  them  free  from  damp. 
They  are  convenient  for  travelling,  these  bags  :  they 
are  not  so  good  when  one  is  settled  down.  But  I  have 
found  a  most  convenient  place  for  clothes — under  the 
thin  mattress  at  the  pillow  end  of  my  bed.  They  are 
easy  to  get  at  there,  and  the  pillow  by  itself  is  somewhat 
low.  ...  In  the  centre  of  my  tent  is  a  tin  stove.  The 
chimney,  made  of  tin  sections,  juts  out  through  a  hole 
in  the  canvas  roof.  The  joints  of  these  sections  are 
sealed  with  clay.  At  present  my  orderly,  Grigorie, 
lights  a  fire  each  night.  We  burn  wood  only.  There 
is  peat  to  be  had  for  the  cutting,  but  wood  already 
cut  lies  nearer  home.  The  enemy  saves  us  much 
work. 

Outside,  amongst  the  trees,  my  men  are  also  camped 
in  tents.  These  tents  are  big  and  round.  Each  holds 
thirty  men.  The  horses  are  tethered  in  the  open  too. 
They  stand  in  long  lines  sheltered  by  the  trees.  Our 
wagons  stand  close  to  the  forest's  edge.  When  evening 
comes  the  men  light  wood  fires  in  the  open.  The 
pungent  smoke  smells  very  nice.  When  it  is  dark  I 
see  the  soldiers  sitting  there,  their  faces  lit  up  with 
the  red  fire's  glow.  Always  they  sing,  very  quietly 
the  folk  songs  of  "  Little  Russia."  One  man  plays  a 
concertina.  He  plays  it  very  well.  There  is  a  tenor 
who  sings  beautifully.  His  favourite  song — and  mine, 
I   think — is   of  chrysanthemums   that  grew  in  a  city 

garden "  Faded  Chrysanthemums,"  it  is  called. 

This  is  the  translation  : 

In  the  garden  where  we  used  to  meet 

Your  favourite  flower,  the  Chrysanthemum,  was  blooniing  : 

And  then  in  my  soul  opened  the  flower  of  love.  .  .  . 

The  park  is  now  deserted  :    You  went  away  long  ago. 
Quite  depressed  I  roam  alone  and  involuntary  tears  fall  fast 
Over  a  faded  branch  of  chrysanthemums. 

The  chrysanthemiims  faded  long  ago  in  the  park. 
But  love  lives  on  in  my  deeply  wounded  heart.  .  .  . 


210      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

The  melody  is  beautiful.  The  man  sings  softly : 
one  hears  the  sorrow  in  his  voice.  The  other  men 
hum  a  quiet  accompaniment.  .  .  .  And  the  setting  ! 
....  Can  you  see  it  ?  ....  A  dark  wood  :  a  glowing 
camp  fire — yellow  and  red,  with  the  smoke  showing 
brownish-grey  above  the  glow.  The  evening  breeze 
makes  the  flames  flicker  from  time  to  time.  A  thin 
spray  of  sparks  ascends  fountain-wise.  .  .  .  The  men 
sitting  or  lying  on  the  ground.  They  wear  their  grey 
coats  like  capes.  And  all  is  calm.  The  artillery  is 
silent.  There  is  not  a  sound  from  the  trenches.  .  .  . 
Now  and  again  one  hears  a  horse  whinney.  Now  and 
again  one  hears  the  rumble  of  a  passing  wagon.  Over 
our  lines  the  rival  rockets  burst  and  light  up  No  Man's 
Land.     But  one  hears  no  sound.     It  is  very  still. 

And,  somehow,  when  night  comes  and  when  I  see 
these  red  wood  fires  and  smell  the  delightful  incense 
of  the  burning  wood,  I  find  the  sad  songs  are  the  songs 
I  want  to  hear.  Faded  chrysanthemums — and  autumn 
will  soon  be  here  again.  Town  parks  and  garden  plots. 
Men  die — and  flowers  fade — but  flowers  all  live  with  us 
again.  And  I  sit  in  the  cool  night  air  beside  my  tent 
door  and  smoke  my  pipe.  An  oil  lamp  throws  out  a 
little  patch  of  light  so  that  I  do  not  smoke  untasting 
in  the  dark.  And  I  think  of — oh  !  so  many  things  ! 
London  and  Surrey  and  the  river  Thames.  .  .  .  Res- 
taurants and  theatres  and  golf  links  and  green  tennis 
lawns.  .  .  .  Faces  I  see,  too — faces  in  the  smoke.  .  .  . 
My  friends  who  died  in  France  and  in  the  Dardanelles. 
.  .  .  That  brings  me  to  the  war.  I  see  a  hundred 
pictures  once  again.  .  .  . 


II 

A  long  white  greyish  road  across  a  plain.  It  is  dark. 
The  sun  has  set :  as  yet  there  is  no  moon.  A  cool 
night  wind  is  chilling  the  warm  earth.  Towards  the 
west,  along  the  horizon,  dull  red  glows  light  up  the  sky. 
A  straggling  regiment  of  men  is  marching  on  towards 
the  east.  The  soldiers  stumble  on  with  heads  bent 
down  as  though  beneath  their  load  of  kit.  Their 
rifles  with  the  long  thin  bayonets  rest  on  their  backs, 


SMOKE  PICTURES  "         211 

the  straps  slung  on  the  left  shoulders  of  the  men.  These 
Russian  soldiers  do  not  march  as  other  soldiers  do. 
They  shuffle.  They  do  not  march  in  any  military 
form.  They  hurry  on  in  single  file  or  else  in  twos  and 
threes,  some  at  one  side  of  the  road,  some  at  the  other. 
They  are  very  tired.  They  have  not  slept,  save  for 
an  hour  or  two,  for  many  nights.  Some  doze — it  is 
the  truth — some  doze  as  they  shuffle  along.  Long 
days  of  fighting  against  overwhelming  odds — bayonets 
against  artillery :  long  weary  night-time  marches  of 
fifty  versts  and  more  :  the  trenches  they  must  make 
when  morning  comes :  and  the  hopelessness,  I  was  about 
to  write — their  faith  is  much  too  great  for  that. 

A  blue-black  night  lit  by  a  yellow  full  round  moon. 
A  railway  station  by  a  forest's  edge.  Four  thousand 
wounded  men.  The  station  buffet  is  an  operating 
chamber.  The  floors  are  wet  and  slippery.  The  other 
rooms  are  dressing  points.  There  is  a  sickening  smell 
of  chemicals.  Lint  and  stained  bandages  overflow 
from  pails  and  bins.  The  broad  tiled  platform  is 
carpeted  with  straw,  the  bedding  for  these  broken  men. 
They  lie  out  in  the  open.  There  is  a  dampness  in  the 
air.  The  tiles  are  damp.  The  straw  in  places  does 
not  cover  them.  One  hears  groaning  on  all  sides — but 
only  from  the  men  who  are  asleep.  The  other  men 
are  stoics  in  their  suffering.  We  have  been  told  to 
leave  this  place  because  the  enemy  is  near.  A  day 
or  two — perhaps  to-morrow — the  enemy  will  come. 
But  there  are  not  trains  enough  to  take  all  injured  men. 
We  have  already  had  ten  thousand  wounded  in  two 
days.  ...  A  long  line  of  ambulances  fetches  other 
wounded  to  our  point.  Even  ambulances  are  not  enough. 
Peasants'  carts  have  been  requisitioned  for  the  work. 
They  unload  their  wounded  and  they  rumble  off  again. 

Another  night  of  bluish-black.  The  German  guns 
are  thundering.  I  see  their  flash  light  up  the  sky. 
I  see  the  orange  spurts  above  our  lines  where  shrapnel 
shells  are  bursting.  I  see  the  rockets — German  ones 
with  steady  light :  Russian  ones  that  burst  firework-like 
into  stars.  I  hear  the  moan  and  scream  of  the  shells' 
flight.     I  hear  the  rifle  volleys  and  the  staccato  stammer 


212      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

of  the  maxim-guns.  I  hear  a  horse's  whinney,  the 
rumbling  of  wagon  wheels,  and  men's  voices  in  the 
dark.  I  see  the  army  carts,  but  dimly.  I  see  the  foals 
that  run  by  their  mothers'  sides.  I  see  the  glow  of 
a  travelling  kitchen  upon  the  surface  of  the  road,  and 
the  white  steam  from  its  boilers.  A  gun's  flash — and 
I  see  the  men  on  horseback  silhouetted  for  a  second's 
fraction  against  the  sky.  I  see  shadowy  forms  of 
soldiers  hurrying  by  on  foot. 

A  canvas  tent  upon  the  open  plain.  The  wind  is 
billowing  out  the  sides.  The  oil-lit  lantern  is  flickering 
in  the  draught.  The  floor  is  carpeted  with  a  tarpaulin 
sheet.  There  are  stretchers  placed  in  a  circle  round 
the  sides,  and  in  lines  in  the  centre.  Most  of  them  are 
occupied.  A  little  Sister,  tired  with  many  hours  of 
work,  is  sleeping  in  a  chair  beside  an  unlit  stove.  The 
lantern  casts  shadows  on  her  face.  A  sanitar  smokes 
numerous  cigarettes  and  paces  like  a  sentry  up  and  down. 
He  pulls  a  rug  around  this  man,  much  as  a  mother  pulls 
a  blanket  round  the  shoulders  of  a  sleeping  child.  He 
gives  a  drink  to  that.  He  hunkers  down  and  whispers 
softly  to  a  third.  He  has  great  strong  arms,  this 
sanitar,  but  one  hand  has  three  fingers  missing.  The 
stumps  are  purplish-red.  He  is  a  big,  gentle  fellow  with 
a  tender  heart.  He  knows  what  battles  are  !  He  knows 
the  pain  of  bullet  wounds.  ...  A  cart  comes  rumbling 
to  the  door.  The  driver  purrs  out — "  Pr-r-r-r-r-r-  !  " 
to  his  horse.  It  is  the  Russian  sound  for  "  whoa  !  " 
....  The  big  sanitar  goes  out  and  carries  in  another 
man  in  his  arms  and  places  him  carefully  on  a  vacant 
stretcher.  There  is  something  feminine  in  his  gentle 
handling  of  the  wounded  men.  .  .  .  The  noise  of  guns 
is  continuous.  The  report — the  whistle — and  the  burst- 
ing bang.  .  .  .  The  canvas  door  flaps  in  the  wind.  The 
Sister  sleeps.  The  sanitar  smokes  and  paces  up  and 
down.  .  .  . 

An  autumn  day  upon  an  upland  plain.  Down  in 
the  valley  is  a  clump  of  trees.  The  leaves  are  golden, 
yellow,  russet  red.  A  great  camp  lies  beside  a  railway 
line.  Army  stores  are  there  in  stacks — hay  and  straw 
and  bags  of  corn  and  kasha  :  great  loaves  of  black  bread 


SMOKE  PICTURES  213 

in  heaps.  A  company  of  cavalry  is  resting  nearby. 
The  horses  stand  untethered.  They  are  tired.  They 
will  not  run  away.  The  men  sit  in  groups.  Some  of 
them  are  sleeping  on  the  ground,  their  saddles  for 
their  pillows.  Red  Cross  tents  are  dotted  here  and 
there.  Also  there  are  large  wooden  buildings  for  the 
wounded  men.  A  barbed  wire  fence  runs  round  one 
lazaret.  Here  are  men  with  fever  and  infectious  diseases. 
This  place  is  "  out  of  bounds  "  .  .  .  .  Before  the  tents 
the  slightly  wounded  men  sit  or  walk  slowly  in  the 
open  air.  .  .  .  There  is  the  boom  of  nearby  guns. 
The  reports  are  like  half-stifled  barks.  Shrapnel  clouds 
come  in  the  sky.  One  looks — one  strains  one's  eyes — 
and  then  one  sees  a  pale  brown,  shining  aeroplane.  It 
comes  nearer  and  nearer.  One  is  foolish  to  stay  in 
the  open.  There  are  bomb-proof  shelters,  but,  fascinated, 
one  watches  the  machine  come.  The  guns  cease  firing. 
The  aeroplane  is  just  above  the  camp.  It  circles  for 
a  minute  or  two,  then  there  is  the  "  vSsh.  .  .  .     Ssh  .... 

SSH "    of    a    falling    bomb.     A    great    explosion: 

and  a  cloud  of  earth  is  thrown  up  from  the  ground. 
One  rushes  to  the  spot.  Only  a  hole  is  in  the  earth, 
but,  nearly  a  hundred  yards  away,  a  man  lies  with 
his  head  cut  in  two.  One  runs  to  look  at  him.  No 
one  speaks.  One  simply  looks.  .  .  .  Then  one  searches 
for  some  fragments  of  the  bomb.  They  are  hot — one 
can  scarcely  hold  them.  .  .  .  The  dead  man  wears  a 
dark  blue  dressing-gown.  His  arm  is  bound  in  bandages. 
Another  week,  perhaps,  and  he  would  have  been  well 
enough  to  go  back  to  the  lines.  The  Red  Cross  doctor 
calmly  smokes  his  cigarette.  He  alters  an  entry  in 
his  books.  .  .  .  Two  men  go  off  with  spades  towards 
the  valley. 

A  cabaret  in  Moscow.  A  crowded,  well-lit  place. 
Plush  hangings  and  much  gold-work  on  white  paint. 
The  tables  are  all  occupied.  Officers,  certainly  :  and 
women  :  and  a  surprising  amount  of  young  men  in  civil 
dress.  Everyone  is  laughing  and  chatting  merrily. 
Scantily  clad  dancers  jump  about  the  stage.  Others 
sing  to  an  audience  that  does  not  listen.  No  one  pays 
much  attention  to  the  artistes.  Wine  is  served  in 
bottles    labelled    "  Lemonade."     Vodka — an    imitation 

p*  2 


214      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA         / 

vodka  made  of  pure  alcohol  and  water — is  served  in 
cups  :  so  is  cognac.  The  prices  are  very  high,  but  that 
does  not  matter.  The  drink's  the  thing.  There  is 
total  prohibition — unless,  well — there  are  ways  and 
means  :  chiefly  means.  A  red-coated  Italian  orchestra 
at  the  back  of  the  room  plays  during  the  stage  entr'actes. 
The  musicians  play  guitars  and  mandolines  :  also  two 
men  sing  merry  songs,  snapping  their  fingers  rag-time 
wise.  By  one  side  of  the  room,  behind  a  trellis  work 
covered  with  imitation  vines,  a  choir  of  dark-skinned 
gipsies  sits.  Their  appearance  on  the  stage  will  be 
the  closing  act.  Meanwhile,  they  sit  and  yawn  and 
look  bored.  Later  on  when  their  performance  is  over, 
they  will  walk  around  the  promenade  at  the  back  and 
beg  for  cab  fares  and  for  money  gifts.  Some  are  very 
pretty  :  others  are  somewhat  wrinkled  and  passies.  The 
elder  women  wear  medals  gained  by  singing  prowess  in 
the  past.  .  .  .  Cigarette  smoke  and  the  smoke  from 
fat  cigars.  A  negro  in  a  morning  coat  passes  amongst 
the  tables.  He  wears  great  rings  on  his  fingers.  He 
shakes  hands  with  his  regular  clients.  They  seem  de- 
lighted to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  proprietor. 
It  ensures  them  alcohol,  they  think  :  but  anyone  who 
likes  to  pay  can  have  all  he  requires.  At  two  o'clock 
a  bell  is  rung,  but  no  one  troubles  to  go  home  for  quite 
an  hour  after  the  legal  closing  time.  The  negro  pro- 
prietor is  not  afraid.  The  police,  no  doubt,  are  his 
friends.  Every  man  there  has  his  price.  Profits  from 
wine  and  alcohol,  thanks  to  their  total  prohibition, 
are  very  big.  The  artistes'  salaries,  too,  must  be  very 
low.  .  .  . 

A  fenced-off  space  where  dead  men  rest.  The  crosses 
are  new,  and  decked  with  leaves  and  branches.  There 
are  other  posts  there  with  crescents  nailed  on  top, 
where  some  dead  Mohammedans  lie.  Also  plain  posts 
with  neither  cross  nor  crescent  mark  the  graves  of 
fallen  Jews  or  of  men  without  religion.  Pencilled  epi- 
taphs are  on  the  wood.  Fellow  soldiers  have  written 
a  few  words  there.  Crude  verse,  too.  .  .  .  Some 
graves  have  elaborate  wreaths  hanging  from  the  crosses. 
These  wreaths  are  made  of  flowers  and  leaves  culled 
from  the  fields  and  woods,  but  the  foundation  is  a  circle 


SMOKE  PICTURES  215 

of  barbed-wire.  Other  wire  is  scarcer  at  the  Front. 
.  .  .  Some  soldiers  walk  bare-headed  from  grave  to 
grave.  They  read  the  pencilled  names,  the  clumsy 
epitaphs.  Perhaps  they  search  for  graves  of  comrades. 
.  .  .  They  cross  themselves.  They  walk  slowly  to 
the  gate.  They  light  their  cigarettes,  then  mount 
their  horses  and  go  off  towards  the  battle  line.  They 
sing  loudly.     I  can  only  guess  why,  .  .  . 


Ill 

Cinematograph-like,  a  reel  of  pictures  runs  across  my 
mind.  Some  I  see  as  pleasant  memories.  Certain 
Polish  woods  and  lakes  :  heather  moors  and  autumn 
colourings  :  great  patches  of  birch  trees  that  make  a 
curious  effect  of  black  and  white  :  cheremucha  bushes 
by  the  edge  of  sun-lit  streams,  shedding  a  heavy  perfume 
on  the  air  :  some  men  :  the  faces  of  some  women.  .  .  . 
Others  are  awesome  views  of  war,  but  there  is  something 
magnificent  about  them.  The  marching  of  singing 
men  towards  the  trenches.  The  evening  parades  when 
men  line  up  to  pray.  .  .  .  The  flashes  of  the  guns  : 
the  lights  of  rockets  :  the  shrapnel's  bursting  flame  at 
night.  The  day-time  trenches  of  two  years  ago  ;  the 
spurts  of  earth  where  bullets  struck ;  the  dug-outs 
where  men  huddled,  hearts  beating  quickly,  when  a 
shell's  moaning  whistle  came.  .  .  .  Our  aeroplanes 
above  the  German  lines,  sailing  through  thick  shoals 
of  black-brown  shrapnel  clouds  ;  their  aeroplanes  above 
our  lines  —  sailing  through  thin  shoals  of  white 
shrapnel  puffs  of  smoke.  One  knew  the  enemy's  shrap- 
nel by  the  brown  smoke  and  by  the  prodigality  of  the 
number  :  our  shrapnel  smoke  was  white,  and  also  very 
scarce. 

Other  memories  are  terrible.  I  cannot  shake  them 
from  my  mind.  Dead  men  that  I  have  seen,  and  worse 
still,  wounded  men.  Men  and  earth  and  wood  all 
mixed  up  in  a  heap.  Horses  and  men  and  carts  that 
have  been  smashed  at  one  shell's  bursting.  Refugees 
who  died  of  exhaustion  by  the  wayside.  Peasant 
children  wounded  and  crippled  for  all  time.  Towns 
wrecked  by  guns  :  small  villages  burned  down  by  fire. 


216      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

Long  queues  of  hungry,  homeless  folk  lined  up  to  get 
a  scanty  meal.  Lost  children  whose  parents  would 
never  find  them  again. 

We  did  little  in  1916  and  in  the  early  months  of  1917. 
We  did  not  even  mark  time.  We  stood  at  ease.  Occa- 
sionally there  was  a  slight  enemy  attack,  but  very  seldom 
was  our  rest  disturbed.  .  .  .  We  had  our  days  of  pessi- 
mism. We  waited  for  the  opportunities  that  never 
came.     Sometimes — sometimes  we  lost  hope. 

But,  thank  God,  we  did  not  have  to  undergo  again 
the  horrors  that  we  had  in  tragic  1915. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


News  travels  very  fast  to  Germany.  The  day  follow- 
ing the  arrest  of  Protopopov,  Soukhomlinov,  Stiirmer 
and  Co.,  a  large  notice  was  displayed  from  the  German 
trenches  : — 


This  was  meant  as  a  taunt,  or  a  sneer  at  the  Russians, 
but  they  were  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  NOT  OURS — BUT  YOURS  !  " 

was  the  triumphant  answering  display. 

The  Germans  carried  on  the  war  with  words.  Aero- 
planes dropped  pamphlets  telling  the  Russians  what 
the  Germans  thought  of  England.  "  Behold  now — 
your  Fiend,  England  !  "  the  various  proclamations 
said.  They  told  of  cunning  and  of  evil  plots  :  of  Eng- 
land's greed  and  wickedness  and  vice  ;  of  England's 
wish  to  ward  off  peace  so  that  her  poor  Allies  would 
all  be  lost,  and  England  would  be  left  standing  jeeringly 
from  out  the  ruins  that  she  had  caused.  The  pamphlets, 
which,  of  course,  were  printed  in  Russian,  also  said 
that  the  dear,  beloved  Tsar  of  Russia  had  fallen  as  a 
victim  to  English  cunning :  that  England  wished  to 
hold  him  as  hostage  for  the  acquisition  of  ransom  in  the 
shape  of  Russian  territory  and  that  Russians  should 
awake  to  this  fact  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  such 
a  fiend  as  England  was  ....  These  pamphlets  were 
wonderful  grim  fairy  tales. 

The  following  incident  happened  on  April  14,  1917, 
on  the  middle  Western  Russian  Front.  A  Russian 
officer  second-lieutenant  of  the  165th  Regiment,  of  the 

217 


218      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

42nd  Division,  Second  Russian  Army,  saw  one  of  his 
sergeants  make  his  way  unarmed  towards  the  German 
Hnes.  The  officer  suspected  that  a  plot  of  some  sort 
was  on  foot.  He  determined  that  the  sergeant  should 
not  speak  to  the  Germans  except  in  his  presence,  and 
that  whatever  the  Germans  had  to  say  to  the  sergeant 
they  must  say  to  him,  the  second-lieutenant,  as  well. 
So  he  very  bravely  left  his  trench  and  reached  a  point 
between  the  lines,  screened  from  attack,  where  he 
found  two  German  officers  greeting  the  Russian  sergeant. 
One  of  these  Germans  was  a  young  man  named  Walder- 
mann — formerly  a  student  in  Petrograd :  no  doubt 
formerly  a  spy.  He  spoke  Russian  perfectly.  He  con- 
gratulated the  Russians  on  their  freedom,  told  them 
that  now  they  must  leave  off  fighting  and  put  their 
house  in  order,  and  finally  assured  them  that  Russia 
had  Germany  to  thank  for  her  freedom,  for  without 
the  war  the  Revolution  would  not  have  been !  This 
last  statement  was  also  issued  in  pamphlet  form  by 
the  Germans.  They  who  had  sworn  for  over  thirty 
months  that  they  were  innocent,  that  England  alone 
had  started  and  prolonged  the  war  (without  England 
the  war,  no  doubt,  would  have  finished  earlier,  so  there 
was  a  little  truth  in  the  German  statement  1)  that 
England,  the  "  Fiend,"  had  forced  poor  Germany  to 
take  up  arms,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — they  who  had  sworn 
all  that  now  had  the  shameless  impudence  and  audacity 
to  say,  "  We  started  the  war  and  because  of  that  you 
Russians  have  your  freedom.  So  thank  us  and  realise 
that  we  indeed  are  your  best  friends  !".... 

There  is  much  to  laugh  at  in  this  fact.  There  is 
much  of  the  ludicrous.  But — alas  ! — there  is  tragedy, 
too.  Many,  many  Russian  soldiers  believed  the  German 
stories  of  virtue  and  friendship.  They  believed  that 
the  Germans  wished  for  peace  because  of  their  warm 
affection  for  Russia.  .  .  .  And  many,  many  Russian 
soldiers  immediately  accepted  the  Hun  as  their  comrade. 

It  may  seem  incredible  that  Russian  soldiers  at  this 
time  went  frequently  as  guests  to  the  German  trenches, 
and  that  the  Germans  came  to  the  Russian  lines — 
and  saw  all  that  they  wished  to  see.  It  may  seem 
incredible  that  an  entente  existed  between  the  two 
sides — the  Russians  simple  and  trusting,  the  Germans 


"  COMRADE  HUN  "  219 

cunning  and  treacherous.  But  these  are  facts.  This 
visiting  and  entente  actually  occurred.  The  Russians 
on  their  visits  to  the  enemy  were  given  vodka  and  other 
alcoholic  drinks.  Then  they  were  questioned  as  to  the 
location  of  reserves,  munitions,  and  artillery.  The 
Germans  easily  persuaded  some  of  the  simple  and 
gullible  Russian  men  that  they  were  the  real  friends 
of  Russia  and  doubtless  the  drink  given  to  the  guests 
further  loosened  their  tongues. 

One  of  the  results  of  such  a  visit  took  place  on  the 
8th  of  May  (April  25,  Russian  date)  on  the  Baranovitchi 
Front.  The  villages  of  Lotva  and  Liakhovitch  were 
heavily  bombarded  by  the  German  artillery.  Finally 
they  were  set  on  fire  and  completely  destroyed.  The 
Russian  losses,  officially  announced  (and  I  have  reason 
to  believe  that  these  do  not  include  the  losses  of  the 
peasant  population;  many  still  remained  in  their 
villages  sharing  their  houses  with  the  soldiers)  were 
nine  men  killed,  thirty-five  wounded,  one  man  suffering 
from  shell  shock,  and,  up  to  the  8th  of  May  inclusive, 
thirty-five  missing — probably  lost  in  the  burning  cot- 
tages. Material  losses  included  two  ambulance  wagons, 
three  wagons  containing  chemicals  and  medicaments, 
one  cooking  wagon,  two  workshops  where  rifles  were 
repaired,  75,000  clips  of  cartridges,  1,24-7  rifles,  400 
picks,  500  barbed- wire  cutters,  and  other  effects. 

Following  this  bombardment  was  an  inquiry.  It 
was  then  found  that  one  of  the  soldiers  of   the  20th 

G Regiment,  when  on  a  visit  to  the  German  lines 

near  the  village  of  Zubelevitch,  had  spoken  freely  of 
the  location  of  the  Russian  reserves  and  material. 
The  Russian  soldiers  and  the  Germans  had  held  a 
meeting  and  this  foolish  man  had  said  that  the  20th 

G Regiment  lived  at  Liakhovitch.     He  also  told 

where  the  maxim-gun  stores  and  reserves  were  kept, 
and,  generally,  made  the  enemy  acquainted  with  that 
which  the  Russian  authorities  had  tried  to  keep  secret. 

On  the  same  day  that  this  bombardment  took  place, 
a  Russian  officer,  overheard,  by  accident,  a  conversation 
between  a  Russian  soldier  and  a  Russian  artilleryman. 
The  former  asked  specially  that  the  artillery  men 
should  refuse  to  fire  that  day  because  "  the  Germans 
will  be  on  a  visit  to  our  trenches  "  and  their  Russian 


220      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

hosts  were  anxious  that  their  crossing  should  be  quite 
safe. 

This  is  only  one  of  the  many  episodes  that  occurred. 
Even  German  officers  visited  the  Russian  men  and 
hostilities  ceased  while  they  told  their  lies  to  the  Russians 
— and  got  what  information  they  required.  It  was 
an  impossible  state  of  affairs.  And  how  treacherous 
the  Germans  were  !  ....  I  saw  a  wounded  man  in 
May  in  the  Iverski  Field  Hospital,  when  on  a  visit 
to  a  doctor  acquaintance.  This  man  had,  with  other 
Russians,  been  on  a  visit  to  their  Comrades,  the  Huns. 
On  their  returning  across  the  open  to  their  own  lines 
the  Germans  fired  on  them.  .  .  .  North  of  us,  on  the 
Dvinsk  Front,  six  hundred  balloons  of  gas  were  received 
by  one  Russian  regiment.  Then  came  a  formidable 
wind.  The  commander  ordered  an  attack  with  gas. 
The  soldiers  refused — on  the  ground  that  it  was  too  brutal  ! 
....  The  wind  changed  next  day  and  the  Germans 
fired  gas  shells  against  the  tender-hearted  regiment.  ,  .  . 

A  special  Army  Order  was  issued  prohibiting  the 
Russian  soldiers  from  visiting  or  entertaining  the 
Germans.  But  even  after  this  came  news  of  an  extra- 
ordinary occurrence  that  had  taken  place.  ...  I 
have  not  written  anything  except  what  was  freely 
discussed  on  the  Russian  Front — news  that  was  practi- 
cally "  public  property."  But  in  this  particular  case 
I  will  quote  the  Official  Order  issued  by  the  General 
Commanding  the  armies  on  the  Western  Russian 
Front,  on  the  6th  of  June.  I  do  not  wish  to  take 
advantage  of  my  position,  but  I  wish  to  show  how 
extraordinarily  simple  the  Russian  soldier  is — because 
I  wish  to  show  how  very  difficult  it  was  to  deal  with 
him  and  what  a  very  anxious,  trying  time  his  officers 
had. 

"  Order  of  the  General  Commanding  the  armies  on 
the  Western  Front.  Taken  prisoner  of  war,  a  German 
soldier  of  the  150th  Cyclist  Company  related  that  already 
for  two  months  an  exchange  trade  had  taken  place 
on  German  initiative  between  the  Russian  and  the 
German  soldiers  with  bread,  soap  and  sugar,  the  Russians 
receiving  in  exchange  watches,  knives,  purses,  razors 
and  cigars.  The  Russian  bread  and  sugar  are  valued 
by  the  Germans  extremely  low  and  demands  are  made 


«  COMRADE  HUN  "  221 

for  additional  payment  of  money  as  well.  This  barter 
takes  place  in  the  Russian  trenches  and  near  the  Russian 
barbed- wire  barriers.  The  greatest  quantity  of  products 
is  received  by  the  Germans  placed  near  the  Russian 
field  sentries.  Bread  is  supplied  (to  the  enemy)  in 
a  considerable  quantity,  approximately  half  the  rations 
issued  to  the  Russian  soldiers,  which  makes  it  possible 
for  the  German  army  to  endure  more  easily  the  acute 
alimentary  crisis.  Our  officers  are  against  this  barter 
but  the  German  commanders  in  every  way  endeavour 
to  attain  their  aim  of  nourishing  their  soldiers.  An 
account  of  this  fact  having  been  communicated  to  the 
Commanding  General,  General  Gurko  underlines  that 
it  can  bring  about  ruin  in  the  army,  and  calls  it  treachery 
to  Russia — this  barter  in  whatever  bread  and  sugar 
may  be  of  use  to  the  needy  nation  which  has  given  its 
last  crumbs  to  the  army. 

"  Come,  soldiers,  remember  your  native  land,  your 
families,  fathers,  mothers  and  children  !  Limiting  them- 
selves to  the  most  indispensable  necessaries  of  life, 
they  give  all  that  there  may  be  plenty  at  the  Front. 

"  In  conclusion,  the  Commander-in-Chief  expresses 
the  confidence  that  the  military  committees  will  draw 
attention  to  this  unpardonable  phenomenon,  and  that 
they  will  use  all  their  authority  to  prevent  this  treacher- 
ous intercourse  with  the  enemy.  I  order  that  whosoever 
will  be  detected  in  this  treachery  be  handed  over  to 
a  judge  and  that  he  be  treated  with  the  utmost  severity." 

The  Russian  soldiers  were  not  criminals.  They 
were  simply — simple.  Even  in  1915,  when  they  were 
suffering  so  terribly  from  the  attacks  of  the  enemy, 
they  threw  lumps  of  bread  towards  the  German  trenches, 
because  the  Germans  cried  out  that  they  had  no  food. 
.  .  .  But  what  an  exasperating  simplicity  theirs  was  ! 

On  the  6th  of  May  (April  23,  Russian  date)  to  the 
lines  held  by  the  151st  Piatigorski  Infantry  Regiment, 
38th  Army  Division,  came  a  German  Colonel  who  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the  Russian  General  Staff.  The 
Russian  commander  refused  his  request.  The  German 
then  stated  that  he  wished  to  speak  with  the  Commander 
of  the  Corps,  then  with  the  Commander  of  the  Army, 
and  then  he  wished  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  Petrograd. 


222      ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

But  of  what  he  wished  to  speak  he  did  not  tell.  On 
the  Russian  regiment  commander  refusing  to  permit 
the  German  Colonel  to  go  to  the  various  staffs,  the 
soldiers  of  the  regiment  were  displeased — and  showed 
their  displeasure. 

General  Alexiev  issued  an  Army  Order  on  the  12th 
of  May  (29th  April)  referring  to  what  he  called  a  "  sad 
occasion."  "  Even  I,  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  all 
the  Russian  Armies,  am  not  able  to  discuss  peace  with 
German  Colonels, ' '  he  wrote.  '  'Any  officer  who  enters  into 
such  negotiations  is  a  traitor  to  his  country.  Only  the 
Ministers  are  able  to  talk  of  peace,"  he  said.  "  They  and 
they  alone  know,  with  the  consent  of  the  whole  Russian 
nation,  when  and  how  we  must  end  the  war.  And  the 
terms  of  peace  will  not  be  discussed  with  German  Colonel- 
negotiators,  but  with  diplomats  of  the  highest  authority. 
*'  The  Germans  know  this  very  well,  but  they  send 
their  negotiators  to  spy  out  the  Russian  trenches,  to 
see  the  disposition  of  the  troops,  and  to  encourage  the 
provokators  to  stir  up  discord.  .  .  . 

"  If  the  German  fiend  really  wished  peace,  he  knows 
how  and  through  what  channels  he  can  speak  with 
our  Ministers.  But  he  does  not  speak  with  the  Ministers. 
He  does  not  wish  peace  :  he  wishes  to  see  the  arrangement 
of  our  trenches,  to  upset  your  faith  in  your  commanders 
and  to  spread  more  dreams  of  an  early  peace.  Awake  ! 
....  Peace  can  only  come  when  we  are  victorious 
over  the  fiend.  The  native  land  expects  that  we  will 
give  all  for  that  victory. 

"  Believe  in  your  commanders  as  your  chief  friends, 
loving  the  soldiers  and  living  the  same  life  at  the  Front 
as  they  do. 

"  Woe  to  the  army  that  does  not  trust  its  comman- 
ders. .  .  ." 

"  Slava  Bogu  !  "— "  Glory  be  to  God  !  "  as  they  say 
in  Russia,  the  Division  to  which  I  was  attached  remained 
comparatively  tranquil  and  loyal  to  their  country. 
But  our  neighbouring  Division  to  the  south  caused 
much  trouble.  One  regiment,  the  513th,  encouraged 
by  a  few  provokators  and  by  the  outpourings  of  Lenin 
&  Co.,  refused  to  go  to  the  trenches.  .  .  .  Another 
regiment  actually  left  their  position  in  the  front  trench 


«  COMRADE  HUN  "  223 

and  set  off  for  the  nearest  railway  station,  carrying 
with  them  their  rifles  and  their  ammunition.  They 
returned  to  their  trench  after  their  officers  had  pleaded 
earnestly  with  them.  The  Germans  could  have  strolled 
across  to  the  Russian  lines  that  day  and  taken  possession 
of  these  vacant  trenches  without  firing  a  shot — but 
they  were  much  too  clever.  Any  move  on  their  part 
would  have  brought  the  Russian  men  back,  eager  to 
fight,  much  quicker  than  all  the  prayers  of  the  Russian 
officers.  ...  I  do  not  explain  this  phenomenon,  but 
it  is  true.  If  you  ever  chance  to  see  a  man  beating 
his  wife,  and  if  you  go  to  her  rescue  and  very  properly 
commence  to  trounce  the  brutal  husband — beware  of 
the  wife .'....  Men  of  the  — th  Regiment,  adjoining 
ours,  on  seeing  one  of  our  men  shoot  a  German  who 
suddenly  left  his  own  trench,  threatened  to  attack 
our  men  if  they  continued  to  fire  against  the 
enemy. 

On  the  18th  of  May,  a  Russian  doctor,  a  friend  of 
mine,  came  to  see  me.  He  was  very  depressed.  He 
w^as  in  charge  of  a  hundred  military  sanitars.  The 
previous  day  a  special  deputation  had  approached  him 
on  behalf  of  the  rest  of  the  men.  On  the  excuse  that 
they  were  "  lonely "  and  somewhat  "  bored "  with 
war,  they  asked  for  wine  and  pure  alcohol  (the  latter 
to  make  vodka — equal  portions  of  alcohol  and  water). 
Of  course  the  doctor  refused. 

"  If  you  do  not  give  us  wine  and  vodka  we  will  help 
ourselves,"  the  men  declared. 

The  doctor  spoke  very  severely  to  them  and  threatened 
them  with  heavy  punishment  should  such  a  theft  take 
place.  The  men  went  away  in  anger  and  defiance, 
but  they  made  no  attempt  to  confiscate  the  wine  and 
spirit,  of  which  the  doctor  had  a  considerable  quantity 
— red  wine  for  the  sick  and  wounded,  spirit  for  medicinal 
purposes. 

The  doctor  went  to  consult  a  staff  officer.  He  asked 
what  steps  should  be  taken  in  the  event  of  the  soldiers 
carrying  out  their  threats. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  can  shoot  the 
foremost  man — possibly  the  first  six,  but  after  that 
I  will  be  powerless.  .  .  .*' 


224    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

The  staff  officer  looked  grave,  then  suddenly  he 
brightened  up. 

"It  is  not  so  very  difficult  a  matter  after  all,"  he 
said.  "  Indeed  it  is  very  simple.  If  the  men  ask 
again  for  wine  and  spirit — give  them  what  they  want ! 


Our  own  division  was  comparatively  quiet,  but  still 
there  was  a  certain  amount  of  discontent  and  trouble. 
The  daily  talk  was  of  a  separate  peace.  .  .  .  There  had 
been  an  army  order  that  every  detachment  and  regiment 
and  lazaret  should  cultivate  a  kitchen  garden  or  potato 
and  cabbage  fields  for  the  supply  of  vegetables  for  its 
own  use.  In  the  event  of  an  important  advance  some 
lucky  peasants  would  reap  the  harvest :  in  the  event 
of  a  slight  advance,  another  company — lazaret  or 
reserve  regiment — would  be  the  gainer  :  and — but  no 
one  thought  of  a  retreat.  We  might  not  advance — 
certainly  we  would  not  go  back. 

My  own  men  certainly  worked  in  the  field  I  had 
marked  out,  but  they  worked  very  unwillingly  because, 
said  they,  it  is  foolish  to  sow  what  one  can  never  reap. 
Peace  (this  was  in  the  first  week  in  May)  would  be 
declared  in  a  few  weeks  and  potatoes  would  require 
a  few  months  to  grow  and  ripen. 

I  rode  one  morning  to  the  field  they  were  cultivating  : 
it  was  some  little  distance  away.  I  found  the  men 
setting  potatoes.  .  .  .  There  had  been  a  Committee 
meeting  the  previous  night  and  a  separate  peace  had 
been  the  text  of  the  men's  speeches. 

"  Listen,  comrades  !  "  I  called — everyone  was  "  Com- 
rade "  in  these  days  ! — "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

They  gathered  in  a  semi-circle.  I  marked  out  a 
square  of  grou  nd  with  the  toe  of  my  boot. 

"  This  square  is  Russia,"  I  explained.  "  And  this 
is  Russia,  last  year,  with  a  Tsar,"  placing  a  potato 
by  the  side  of  the  square.  "  Now,  we  have  no  Tsar  " 
picking  up  the  potato  and  throwing  it  away — "  but 
we  have  a  President,"  placing  another  potato  by  the 
side  of  the  square.  "  You  see  that  whether  I  place 
one  potato  here,  or  another,  this  square  which  represents 
Russia  remains  the  same." 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander." 


"  COMRADE  HUN  "  225 

"  Well,  then,  you  see  that  Russia  is  always  Russia, 
whether  you  have  a  Tsar  or  a  President  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  Mr.  Commander." 

And  then  I  preached  "  Russia  for  the  Russians  " 
and  words  to  that  effect.  ...  I  write  of  these  little 
incidents  to  show  how  one  had  to  explain  matters  to 
these  simple  fellows.  .  .  . 

Then  they  worked  cheerfully,  stopping  frequently 
to  ask  me  questions  about  England.  Did  we  have 
black  soil  in  England  or  not  ?  .  .  .  .  What  sort  of 
kasha  did  we  grow — black  or  white  ?  .  .  .  .  How  much 
rye  could  we  produce  for  black  bread  from  each  desiatina 
(two  and  a  half  acres)  ?  Did  we  put  manure  on  the 
ground  ?  What  did  we  sow  and  what  did  we  reap  and 
what  sort  of  weather  did  we  have  in  spring-time  and 
summer  and  autumn  ?  .  .  .  .  Most  of  the  men  had 
been  small-holders  before  the  war. 

Each  answer  I  gave  brought  forth  another  question 
— or,  indeed,  questions.  I  told  that  we  had  no  kasha. 
That  was  incredible  to  them.  What  had  we  instead  ? 
Did  we  grow  rice  ?  .  .  .  .  No,  I  said.  .  .  .  What  then  ? 
....  And  I  told  them  what  agricultural  facts  or 
"  near-facts  "  I  knew.  .  .  . 

Last  year,  the  Russian  soldier  as  soldier  was  a  first 
class  man.  His  discipline  was  excellent.  He  carried 
out  all  orders  given  to  him  quickly  and  cheerfully. 
He  had  a  great  respect  for  his  officers  and  he  showed  it. 
He  was  humble — perhaps  a  little  servile  in  addressing 
his  superiors.  True,  he  did  not  think  for  himself: 
but  true  also  that  he  did  not  think  of  himself.  He 
never  complained.  He  accepted  all  conditions  philo- 
sophically. "  Neechevo  !  "  he  said — "  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter," "Never  Mind"  ....  Bad  weather?  "Nee- 
chevo !"....  Bad  food  or  little  food  ?  "  Neechevo  !  " 
Wounded  or  sick  ? — "  Neechevo  !".... 

I  am  certain  that  no  other  soldier  could  endure  such 
hardships  as  the  Russian  soldier  had  to  endure.  The 
Russian  army  was  smashed  to  the  ground  in  1915 — 
but  the  Russian  army  rose  up  to  fight  again.  I  do  not 
think  another  army  could  have  existed  after  such 
terrible  blows  as  the  Russian  army  received. 

"  When  Madame  Soukhomlinov  was  buying  jewellery 


226    ACTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN  RUSSIA 

and  precious  stones  and  rich  toilettes  and  all  the  most 
expensive  luxuries  of  life,  the  20th  Corps  was  dying 
in  the  snow.  Their  artillery  was  without  shells.  They 
had  no  cartridges  for  their  rifles.  Some  of  the  men 
had  no  rifles.  ..." 

That  was  in  the  early  months  of  1915.     And  later  ? 

The  artillery  on  the  Rawka  Front  in  Poland  went 
away  nearly  two  weeks  before  the  infantry  retreated. 
There  were  no  shells. 

Outside  Warsaw  many  of  the  Russian  guns  had  two 
shells  each  per  day. 

Two  weeks  after  Warsaw  fell  I  saw  several  long 
rows  of  cannon  standing  in  a  wood  near  a  railway 
station — doing  nothing.     There  were  no  shells. 

A  week  later  I  saw  in  four  days  nearly  15,000  wounded 
Russians — none  of  whom  had  been  injured  by  bayonets. 
The  same  week  we  took  prisoner  800  wounded  Germans 
— each  of  whom  had  been  injured  by  bayonet  alone. 

The  criminal  Russian  Ministry  sent  the  Russian 
men  to  fight  with  bayonets  against  artillery  and  machine 
guns.  .  .  .  The  machine  gun  is  the  deadliest  weapon 
in  this  war.  Some  Russian  regiments  had  only  four 
machine  guns — one  for  each  thousand  men.  Others 
had  more — one  machine  gun  per  rota  (company  of 
250  men) — sixteen  per  regiment.  .  .  .  To-day  most 
platoons  have  two  machine  guns  at  least,  so  that  each 
rota  has  eight  and  each  regiment  has  128.  Russian 
officers  have  told  me  that  after  being  nearly  a  year 
at  the  Front  some  of  the  men  chanced  to  see  a  strange 
weapon. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  they  asked. 

*'  Machine  gun." 

"  There,  now  ....  Machine  gun  ....  Interesting  " 
— and  they  crowded  round  it  with  curiosity.  .  .  . 

The  Russian  soldier  was  a  very  badly-off  man,  and 
although  he  said  "  Neechevo !  "  no  one  knew  better  than 
he  did  what  terrible  odds  he  was  fighting  against.  He 
had  a  wonderful  faith — but  faith  died,  slowly  as  the 
war  went  on.  What  was  the  slogan  of  the  Russian 
men  ?...."  For  Religion,  the  Tsar  and  the  Native- 


"  COMRADE  HUN  "  227 

land  "  .  .  .  .  Beautiful  words — a  beautiful  ideal.  But 
ideals  fade  as  realities  are  faced.  .  .  .  What  was 
Religion  ? — Religion  was  prayers  at  eventide — but  nights 
in  the  grim  battle  line  followed.  Religion  was  faith 
in  God  to  save — but  even  men  who  prayed  died  horribly. 
Religion  was  a  Holy  Ikon  round  one's  neck  or  else  a 
tiny  metal  cross — but  was  it  religion  when  one  saw 
the  sacred  ikons  splashed  with  blood  and  crosses  lying 
on  some  dead  men's  breasts  ?  .  .  .  .  The  Tsar — the 
"  Little  Father  "  ? — simply  names.  No  father  would 
let  his  sons  be  treated  thus.  .  .  .  The  Native-land  ? 
What  was  the  Native-land  ?  Was  it  their  villages  far 
far  away  from  all  the  noise  of  war  ?  .  .  .  .  The  Native- 
land  became  in  time  the  Ministers  in  Petrograd — the 
men  who  spoke  and  had  to  be  obeyed  :  the  men  who 
sent  the  soldiers  ill-equipped  to  war  :  the  men  who  did 
not  send  the  cartridges  they  required.  .  .  .  Faith  died 
as  time  went  on. 

Then  Freedom — and  the  Russian  soldier  lost  his 
head.  Freedom — all  men  were  equal.  Freedom — and 
one  could  do  just  as  one  liked.  Freedom — why  should 
an  officer  be  obeyed  ?  Freedom — then  why  should 
soldiers  have  to  fight  and  suffer  hurt,  and  lose  their 
limbs,  and  die,  perhaps,  when  the  Millennium  had  arrived  ? 
....  Not  for  Religion — the  Bible  preached  of  love 
and  forgiveness.  Not  for  an  Emperor — when  Emperor 
was  not.  Then  for  the  Native-land  ?  .  .  .  .  Dreams 
came  of  home — of  wife  and  children.  Dreams  came  of 
peaceful  villages  and  fields  and  quiet  woods.  .  .  . 
If  France  and  England  and  all  the  other  Allies  wished 
to  fight — then  let  them  fight.  Why  in  God's  name 
should  Russia  have  to  fight  as  well  ? 

Poor,  dear  Ivan  Ivan'itch !  .  .  .  .  What  did  you 
know  of  statesmen's  words  ?  What  did  you  know  of 
promises  to  be  fulfilled  ?  What  did  you  know  of  Alli- 
ances and  Treaties  between  State  and  State  ?  .  .  .  . 
Poor,  dear  Ivan  Ivan'itch !  .  .  .  .  You  were  not  far 
enough  removed  from  serfdom  to  know  what  Patriotism 
meant. 

THE    END 


PRINTED   IN   GEBAT   BBITAIN  BT 

RicHABS  Clay  and  Sons,  Limitkd, 

BHVNSWICK   STREET,    STAMFOBD   STREET,   S.E.  1, 
AND  BUNaAT,   SUFFOLK. 


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